


Songs for the Fall

by midtownstorms



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Age Difference, Autumn/Fall themed fic with cosy vibes and PTSD, Comfort, Depressed Tony, Dirty Talk, Fluff and Smut, Ghost Hunting, Halloween vibes, Hand Jobs, Hot Tub Sex, Humiliation kink, Jealous Peter, M/M, Mental Health Issues, New England - that deserves a tag too right?, Oral Sex, PWP, Peter is over 17, Pining Peter, Porn with Feelings, Sort Of, Threesome - M/M/M, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug, also with a lot of dealing with PTSD and depression all the while, and feelings related plot, and his teenage libido, cabin porn, established relationship tony/stephen, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-05-18 17:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14856950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/midtownstorms/pseuds/midtownstorms
Summary: When Strange finds out how little Peter’s travelled, he plans a short trip to his vacation home in New England for the three of them. But Peter’s not sure if he can cope, wanting Tony, watching Tony want Stephen.Post-Infinity War, after all is said and done. A cosy fall-themed comfort fic with lots of sex, building towards a filthy three way. Because what Peter wants, Peter gets.





	1. Northern Wind

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic on this account!
> 
> Originally posted on my Tumblr: http://starkerravingmad.tumblr.com/post/174573764265/its-the-fourth-day-of-summer-and-you-know-what

“What do you mean, you’ve never even been out of the state?”

Peter looks from Strange, who’s staring at him waiting for an explanation, to Tony, who’s across the room, distracted by something on one of the Sanctum’s shelves. “Uhh… well, I mean. We took a school trip to D.C, but that didn’t really go so well, and then there’s the time Mr. Stark took me to Germany…”

“That wasn’t exactly a vacation, per se,” Tony says over his shoulder. “Even if Peter treated it like one.”

Opening his mouth to argue, Peter thinks better of it when he remembers how angry Happy had been about his late night escapades in Berlin after the fight at the airport.

The Doctor has his arms folded across his chest. He’s deep in thought. He’s quite handsome, Peter decides, and feels a flare of jealousy in his chest; he knows Tony is interested in Stephen (Stark is terrible at hiding anything from Peter, he’s realised, no matter how good he thinks he is at it) and why shouldn’t he be? The Doctor is tall, good looking, intelligent, and he can keep up with Tony in every way. He’s better than Peter in every way - that’s what is so disappointing. Peter swallows the feeling and tries to content himself with the knowledge that he’s slept in Tony’s bed and Stephen - to his knowledge, at least - hasn’t.

“How about New England?” Strange says, and both men look at him in confusion.

“No, I’ve never… I just said-” Peter starts, but Strange cuts him off with a scoff.

“A trip to New England. That’s what I’m talking about. We could take one. I haven’t been in a few years, but I have a cabin by the lakes up in Maine.”

“ _You_  have a cabin up in Maine.” Tony manages to refrain from laughter, but it’s in his voice. They all hear it. “That, I can’t imagine. Big city wizard, living in a magical manor house full of sparkly magical artefacts? Has a cabin up in Maine.”

“The word you’re looking for is ‘sorcerer’, Stark, but I do realise that at this point you’re just doing it to get on my nerves. And I wasn’t always one.”

Strange is looking frustrated now, and Peter feels like one more comment from Tony might push him too far. He’s still in shock because unless he’s hearing it all wrong, Strange is proposing the three of them take a vacation together (he has  _so_  many questions) but if that is what’s happening, he’s actually pretty excited. New York is seasonal and all, but he doubts it’s anything compared to what Strange is proposing. He’s seen plenty of movies and TV shows set up in the mountains, and the whole concept gives him  _Stranger Things_  vibes that he can definitely get behind.

“That sounds amazing!” He interjects before Tony can put his foot in it again. “I’d love to!”

The two older men are still glaring at each other when he speaks, and when neither of them react he has a moment of panic that perhaps Strange wasn’t referring to him at all when he said ‘ _we_ should take a trip’. But then Strange is smiling at him, and Stark’s rolling his eyes, which is usually a sign he’s onboard with an idea without wanting to say as much.

“Well then,” Strange says, and Peter feels a spark of excitement catch alight in himself. “It’s settled.”

 

Which is how he finds himself on one of Tony’s pilotless jets again, making the short flight up to Bar Harbor, a few hours drive from Strange’s cabin. The whole drive to the airport, he’d been unable to ignore the air between Tony and Stephen; something had changed in the few weeks between them deciding to take the trip and actually taking it, and it made Peter nervous. It isn’t as though he has any personally claim to Tony - it was only one night, and Tony had been drunk, and they’d not really done anything anyway - but he can’t avoid the cloud of misery that fogs his mind every time he looks at the two of them together. Perhaps coming on this trip would prove to be a mistake, he thinks, shifting to look out the window instead of at Tony and Stephen, deep in conversation further down the plane.

At least the view is spectacular. It’s only a few hours to Maine, much quicker than the trip to Germany, but Peter sees more landscape than he ever has. He sees forests of greens and reds and oranges, blanketed out across the land like an ocean. He sees mountains (he’s never seen mountains before, and he falls in love with them instantly) and lakes and small towns and big cities; at one point he’s sure they fly over Boston because he’d recognise the MIT campus from anywhere, even the sky. It’s less than a year until he’ll be going there now. The thought makes his head swim.

Tony and Stephen’s conversation gets louder and more full of laughter, so Peter pretends to be asleep. Later when Tony asks him how he’s feeling, he lies and says he’s exhausted. He doesn’t miss the concern that flashes across Tony’s face.

By all accounts, he should be excited. He’s on vacation with Tony Stark, for crying out loud. Ned hardly even believed him when he said he was taking time out of class for a vacation with Stark over Columbus Day weekend - now the three of them are collecting their week’s worth of luggage and suddenly Peter’s in the back of a flash SUV, and he can see the ocean. The scenery takes his breath away, the ocean colliding with the rocky beaches and seas of colour every way he looks, wrapped up around clapboard houses and picket fences. It’s a far cry from Queens. The drive takes them into the national park and Peter gawks at everything they pass; it’s his first time in a real forest. He keeps Bon Iver playing from his phone in one ear, and rolls the window down to hear the rush of the wind past the car in the other.

 

The cabin is not what he expected at all. Peter’s only got the sanctum to go on, but he was expecting something at least more over the top from Strange; what they do find is something neither extravagant or particularly big. Apart from the place he shares with May, and Ned’s place, Peter’s experience is largely in modern and definitely over the top homes - he’s seen Tony’s place, Liz’s place, Flash’s place (a school project, and a memory he’d rather forget) and the Avengers compound. The lake cabin is small and unassuming, and despite some very misleading windows, only has one storey. It’s built with stained pine and a steel roof, and the inside is luxury, but still small. One main room housing the lounge and small kitchen, a tiny bathroom, and only two bedrooms.

Peter’s not complaining, though. Perhaps, he thinks, he can forgo the pull out and convince Tony to let him share his bed.

What it does have is a back porch floating over the lake with steps right into the water. And a pool table. And a wine cellar. Peter knows little of Strange from before he became Sorcerer Supreme, but he does know he was a wealthy doctor, and looking at his vacation home, he’s starting to see it more and more.

“Oh my god, is that a hot tub?”

Worries and jealousy temporarily forgotten, Peter pulls back the cover and plunges his hand in, only to find the water freezing. Strange chuckles and tells him to flip the switch on at the wall; it’s been years since he was last here, after all, but if they turn it on now it should be ready the next day.

“There’s wood in the shed that should still be good too,” he adds, his tone suggestive, and Peter waits for Tony to make a snide remark - to tell Stephen to fetch it himself, or something at least - but Tony’s far too distracted by the view across the lake.

He’s never looked so peaceful. His whole face has relaxed, even lines Peter thought were permanent softening as he inhales the crisp October air. His eyes slip closed and his lips part, and it looks as though the weight of the entire world is lifting off his shoulders as they slowly loosen, his head tipping back to catch the afternoon sun on his face. Tony is in absolute bliss, he realises. Peter sighs at the sight of it. He’s the first to admit he’s got something of an obsession with Tony, but it’s only looking at the man now that he really stops to think how much Tony deserves this. After everything, Tony Stark deserves break. The world can’t touch him out here. The world might need Iron Man, but the cabin on the lake just needs Tony.

Strange is watching Tony too, a fondness in his expression that Peter’s never seen before, and as he steps up beside him, their shoulders brush.

“I’ll get the wood,” Peter says, excusing himself.

It only takes the rest of that afternoon and evening for Peter to (somewhat reluctantly) decide that Strange would be good for Tony. The Doctor gets a fire going with just a flick of his wrist and they sit around it eating home-cooked food. It’s nothing fancy - a camping stew really, sausages and bacon and beans all cooked into a one pot casserole - but no one is complaining. It’s warm when the air outside is icy. Tony talks about some renewable energy project, Peter talks about college, and Strange keeps his nose stuck in some dusty sci-fi novel he’s pulled off one of the shelves and yet still somehow keeps up with both conversations all the same. He makes Tony laugh more easily and fully than anyone Peter’s met, and Peter catches the two of them looking at each other, whole conversations passing between them without words.

He doesn’t catch Tony staring at him.

When the night settles in fully, they can see the stars -  _all_ the stars, Peter realises. He’s never seen so many in his life - not like this. Not the whole Milky Way. There’s an odd nostalgic feeling about it; he remembers seeing them from the spaceship, but he’s tried his best to put all those memories out of his mind. Seeing the stars above them like this, the galaxy laid out in pinks and purples, it’s different. It’s heartwarming. It reminds him that everyone living up there could have all been snuffed out, but him and Tony and Strange - they all managed to put it right. Together.

“Do you want to row out onto the lake and take a look?” Strange puts his book down preemptively, and Peter’s already nodding in agreement by the time he’s closed the pages.

“Oh my god, that would be amazing! Really?”

He turns to Tony, but finds the older man staring into the fire, whiskey glass resting against his lips, brow furrowed like it usually is back home. He’s going to ask if Tony wants to come, but Strange gets there first.

“Go ahead,” Tony says with a shake of his head. He drains his glass and pours another one. “I’m fine where I am.”

Peter argues, but Strange steers him by the shoulders out to the deck again and tells him Tony probably needs some time alone anyway. He feels like a child being spoken to like that, but even more so feels guilty for not noticing. Strange and Tony seem in tune with each other in a way Peter can only dream of being; his heart sinks a little and when he stares up at the blanket of the milky way in the sky above them, he wonders if he’ll ever be able to make Tony happy.

Probably not in the way Strange could.

“It’s incredible,” he breathes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful in my whole life.”

“I’m glad I got to show you this, then.”

“Huh?” When Peter looks over, Strange is looking right at him with the same intensity he was staring at Tony by the fire. Peter flushes slightly under his gaze, glad to be hidden in the cover of darkness. “Oh, uh - yeah. Thanks, Dr. Strange. I mean it! I’d probably never have seen a place like this without this trip.”

The look on Strange’s face changes, but he’s turned away before Peter can make anything of it. “You don’t have to be so formal all the time, Peter. You can call me Stephen.”

Peter practices the name. It feels alien on his tongue, but he likes it.

They row back in and Peter trails his fingers along the surface of the dark lake and asks Stephen if there’s anything dangerous living in the water, like in  _Lake Placid_  or  _Piranha 3D._ Stephen laughs for a good few minutes.

“I certainly hope not, Peter.”

“That’s good… I’ve always wanted to go skinny dipping.”

Stephen clears his throat and looks anywhere else. Peter doesn’t even notice. “The water will be freezing.”

“Probably, but what if I never get another chance?”

Peter strips off his hoodie and his shirt, and stands up, rocking the rowboat enough to cause Stephen to look round at him again, and suddenly Peter’s aware of the scrutiny. He drops his jeans, then hesitates, and decides his modesty is more important than getting his boxers wet.

“You’re seriously going to do this, aren’t you?” Stephen asks, and there’s no stopping Peter then. They’re only a few yards from the ladder anyway. He shoots Stephen a grin and braces himself, and only just catches the sound of Stephen cursing as he leaps into the water with a graceful backflip.

And god, is it cold. It reminds him on the lake he’d plummeted into chasing Toomes down across Manhattan, and for a moment there’s a flash of panic spreading through his mind - the memory of water rushing around his head, of the parachute tangling up in his limbs, fighting and flailing in desperation to get to air but sinking further, further down with nothing but the sounds of his own muted cries for help in his ears - but then Peter breaches the surface again and he’s looking up at the Milky Way and he laughs because he suddenly feels so  _alive_.

He decides he’s going to swim again in the daylight and see if he can dive to the bottom.

“Cold?” Stephen asks as Peter treads water. Peter grins.

“Happy! Very happy!”

Peter splashes the boat and floats on his back.

“I’ll get you a towel,” Stephen laughs, and hops out onto the deck.

Peter follows him out of the water, cannonballing in a few more times for good measure until he’s too cold to swim anymore, and then stands on the deck shivering. Stephen returns with a towel and wraps him up in it.

“I can do it, I can do it,” Peter protests. “I’m not a kid!”

“You’re freezing,” Stephen argues, dropping another one on his head and rubbing his wet hair, making Peter laugh and squirm away from him. He’s never seen this side of Stephen, but he imagines it might be what Tony sees in the other man. He’s kind, and playful, and nowhere near as serious or intimidating as the impression he gives off. And when he stops wriggling, he finds himself caught in Stephen’s arms, squashed up against his chest, looking up at him. A dumb smile crosses Peter’s face.

Stephen’s looking down at him too. There’s something in his eyes Peter doesn’t understand, his baby blues illuminated by the porch lights, swimming with an emotion Peter can’t pin down. For a moment, he thinks Stephen might kiss him. The concept is ridiculous, but then again, he thought the same thing about Tony Stark before they were kissing and grinding on each other on Tony’s bed. Peter’s breath catches in his throat, and he thinks about how handsome Stephen is again, then of Tony, then of how good Stephen would be for Tony. He knows he needs to be the better person, because they suit each other so well. He’s just a kid, really (not in his arguments with himself when he thinks about how much he wants Tony, though. He’s legal now anyway and if they kissed again there’d be nothing to stop Tony going further - but in comparison to them, he reasons, he’s so young. Why  _would_  either of them want him?) and so he decides to do the mature thing and walk away. He gives Stephen a cheeky grin and slips out of his arms, heading back inside the house to warm up.

Tony’s nowhere to be seen, but Peter finds him in the guest bedroom, already asleep. The pull out is set up for Peter already; so much for sleeping with Tony. He gets ready for bed and only watches Tony for a moment before he turns out the light.

 

When he wakes up, it’s after midnight. It seems too bright for that time of night, but Peter realises it’s just the moonlight pouring in through the still open curtains; he also notices Tony is gone from the bed. Padding softly across the room, he gently opens the bedroom door and sneaks down the corridor to the bathroom. He wants to look for Tony but he can still hear Stephen in his mind, telling him Tony needs space and after everything the man went through Peter wants him to have it.

When he’s done in the bathroom, a noise from the main room distracts him from going straight back to sleep. All his senses on high alert - they’re so isolated out here, after all - he tiptoes towards the main room; it’s a muffled, human sound and at first Peter thinks someone is crying, and he panics, thinks of Tony. He’s about to run in and make sure everything is okay when he hears the sound again, much clearer now.

Oh.

_Oh_.

From where he’s stood, just peering around the corner, he can see Tony on the couch, burying his face in the crook of his arm as Stephen crowds in close to him, murmuring into his ear. Tony’s jeans and boxers are pushed down, legs spread as Stephen jerks him off in slow, deliberate strokes. Whatever he’s whispering has Tony lost in the pleasure, pink lips parted and chest stuttering for each breath.

Peter’s frozen to the spot.

He knows he should go back to him room, go back to bed, give them privacy. But for all his pep talk about how much they deserve each other, he can’t tear his eyes away. He feels his cock stirring in his pyjama pants, a hand sliding down to squeeze it without so much as a thought.

From what he can tell, Tony’s cock is bigger than he imagined it, not in length but in girth. Stephen’s scarred hands tease over it with practiced ease, pausing at the top to swipe over the head, thumb teasing into the slit. Peter swallows hard as Tony moans, biting his lip to keep from making a sound himself. He palms himself through the pyjamas, knowing there’d be no denying what he was doing if they caught him now.

Tony moves his arm, mercifully not looking Peter’s way when he opens his eyes, instead gazing up at Stephen. He says something but Peter can’t catch it from where he is, his mind filling in the gaps instead, then Stephen dips his head and kisses Tony.

Peter shouldn’t watch. He shouldn’t. But he does, savouring the sight of Tony writhing under Stephen’s touch, the way his fingers curl into the couch cushions in desperation, the bulge in Stephen’s slacks he won’t let Tony touch. He’s so hot for it, probably more than he’s been before, and it’s so not his fault when his foot jerks involuntarily and knocks against the wall.

Tony doesn’t notice, just twisting himself further into the couch and groaning as Stephen’s hand tightens around him, but Stephen does. He looks up and sees Peter standing there. If he’s angry, he doesn’t show it.

Peter feels the scrutiny of Stephen’s gaze dragging over his body and he shuffles on the spot, his mind a haze of arousal; Stephen is looking him up and down, can see Peter’s hand gripping his own erection through his pants. Before he can realise what he’s doing, he’s groping it obviously, just to see how Stephen will react.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he just turns back to Tony, gripping his jaw to keep his head turned away from Peter, and continues what he was doing. Peter’s heart hammers against his ribcage as Stephen sildes two fingers into Tony’s mouth and Tony sucks on them eagerly, and then Stephen’s pushing Tony’s jeans further down past his knees and spreading his legs. Peter’s never seen anything more explicit or enticing in his life. It’s all he can do to grip himself and try to stave off from cumming just at the sight of it.

Stephen kisses Tony again, then slides one saliva slicked finger down between his legs and into his ass. Tony shudders and arches his back, another deep moan ripping from his throat, much louder than before. His hands fist in Stephen’s hair and push his head down towards is cock, and Stephen obliges more than willingly, swallowing Tony’s thick cock like it’s nothing.

By the time Tony looks up, Peter’s long gone.

 

He wanted to stay, wanted to watch the whole scene play out, but he can’t do it to himself. He’s so close just from watching that much that by the time he sits down on the bed and slips his hand under the waistband of his pyjama pants, they’re already damp with pre cum. Peter uses it to slick himself over, stroking his cock quick and rough to the sounds of Tony’s groans, much louder now from whatever Stephen’s doing to him. Peter imagines him sliding into Tony, wishes he could go back out and see it. He imagines being in Stephen’s place, sucking Tony’s cock hungrily. Imagines being in Tony’s place, Stephen’s fingers fucking him open, Stephen’s warm mouth swallowing his load. Fuck, he’s going out of his mind with it, and he wants it to last, wants to last as long as Tony does in the next room over, but he can’t hold it off and with a few last jerks, he’s spilling over his hand and his thighs.

He lays there playing with his cock until it’s soft, enjoying the sounds of Tony getting off, and he knows Stephen must be fucking him now because he can hear him too, softer, needy grunts and the creak of the old couch beneath them.

The guilt and worry starts to set in after that, as he cleans himself up and slings the tissues into the waste paper bin, then lays on top of the covers, head swimming in post-orgasm ecstasy and nerves all at once. Before long he drifts off and dreams of his fantasies all over again.

When he wakes up again it’s morning; the curtains are drawn and he’s under the covers with Tony curled up behind him, an arm slung around Peter’s waist.


	2. Bloom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not beta read, because I have no beta reader. If there are any glaring errors please feel free to point them out!

Peter figures Tony and Stephen must have been up late, because Tony doesn’t stir when he slides out of the bed and neither of them are up for a few hours. He showers the remnants of the night before off his skin and eats breakfast on the deck in the blissful quiet, watching a heron skimming the surface of the lake for fish. Now it’s morning, his head is clearer - Stephen hadn’t spoken to him, or warned him off with a look, so he can’t be angry Peter was watching them, he figures. He decides not to say anything to either of them about it unless they decide to say something to him. It was a strange fantasy, feels almost like a dream now he’s no longer in the heat of it.

He tries not to think about how nice it felt to wake up in Tony’s arms this morning; Tony must have been too tired to wake him and move him, must have rolled over in his sleep onto Peter, that’s all it was. There was no point in thinking on it too long - he’d seen the proof in front of him now. There was something going on between Tony and Stephen, and he wasn’t part of that picture, no matter how disappointing that was. (Stephen was better than him in every way, he reminded himself. No point thinking about his brief, drunken moment with Tony back in New York, or that it felt like Stephen wanted to kiss him last night.)

Dismissing the thoughts, Peter strips off his clothes and jumps into the lake again. It’s freezing still, only slightly warmed by the morning sun, but this time he gets to use the hot tub afterwards.

The hot water calms his anxious mind. He can still feel the chill of the morning air around his shoulders, but the briskness is a welcome contrast, like a glass of iced water on a hot day. The landscape before him looks like a masterpiece in all it’s oranges and reds, reflected into the gentle waters of the lake like a mirror, and Peter thinks it must be impossible to be unhappy out here. After everything that’s happened, they  _all_  deserve this - just a break from the world that demands so much of them.

Once he gets too hot for comfort, he dresses and explores the woods for a while, practicing swinging through the trees - it’s trickier than buildings, the distances and heights less obvious, but he gets the hang of it after a while and soon he’s half way across the forest.

  
  


They’re still not awake when he returns, so Peter lays on the rug and does his homework. And tries not to look at the couch, because the memory might be too much.

“Morning kid.”

He expected Stephen to be up first, he really did. Peter peers up at Tony with innocent eyes and is immediately caught off guard by his bedhead and the trail of hair leading down into the waistband of his sweatpants, exposed as he stretches out a yawn. The bottom of a deep scar pokes out from under his shirt. Peter’s eyes trace up and down Tony’s body, the memory of Stephen’s lips on Tony’s throat still ripe in his mind; he drinks in the sight of Tony’s broad shoulders, his slim hips, the soft bulge in the crotch of his sweats--

“Uhhh... morning, Mr. Stark.” He shoots Tony a goofy smile and jumps up to his feet. “Do you want coffee?”

Tony looks a little surprised at his suggestion, but accepts the offer anyway. Soon Peter is making coffee and making breakfast, and they’re chatting away like nothing’s happened. He’s telling Tony about the hot tub, and the forest, and Tony’s indulging him; he admits he’s a little hungover and Peter’s not sure when he managed to drink that much, but then Stephen’s up too. He’s fully dressed and as handsome and neat as ever, looking like he’s been up for hours already. Cooking is a welcome distraction from looking at either of them.

“How’s the Sanctum?” Tony asks and Stephen chats about it quietly for a while. It takes Peter a moment to realise he must have taken a portal back there to check on it. His first reaction is frustration.

“This is a supposed to be a vacation,” Peter says without looking up from the stove, only partly teasing.  
  
Stephen hums his amusement. “Protecting reality doesn’t take a vacation.”

Tony’s got a few choice words on that, and soon they’re debating how much vacation time heroes should be allowed to take. It feels nice. Easy. Peter could definitely get used to it.

They eat and laze around for a few more hours. No one’s saying anything about what happened, so Peter tries to settle his mind and enjoy himself. He expects shared looks and secret smiles between Tony and Stephen at least, but nothing’s any different to how it was the day before, how it ever is. If the night before had been their first time together, or just a one night stand, there’s not a single sign to be seen.

They head back to Bar Harbor to see the sights that afternoon and Peter’s amused to find people still want pictures with Iron Man even out here in the sticks, in the small towns in the middle of nowhere. He captures some of them on video, keeping his camera open on his phone all day and taking as many clips and photos as he can. There’s quite a few shops and he’s even more amused to discover everything in the area is made of blueberries; there’s cakes, pies, ice cream, beers, wines - Stephen tells him it’s the State Fruit and that Maine takes it way overboard. Peter easily finds gifts for May, and something for MJ and Ned (all blueberry themed, of course.) He’s counting pocket change trying to work out if he has enough on him when Tony swipes his card and pays for him, tells him he can have whatever he wants.

It’s not like he’s not used to Tony buying him things, but he still utters a shocked “thank you, Mr. Stark,” all the same because he still can’t get his head around it. Tony takes such good care of him and May and never asks for anything in return - even if it’s just small change to Tony, it’s not to them, and Peter swears he’ll find some way to repay him, some day. There’s not even a justifiable reason for Tony to do it, nothing Peter can decipher. If it’s guilt, it’s misplaced. Peter does nothing he doesn’t want to do. Nothing he’d not do anyway, even without Tony’s guidance. 

There’s Halloween decorations in some of the shops too and Peter can’t help but be excited, because it’s his favourite holiday. He’s already been planning how he’s going to spend the holiday this year with Ned, because they’re really too old to be trick or treating now and they’ve watched horror movies and stuffed their faces for several years running, but it’s not as fun to get all dressed up just to sit at home. He wants to go to a  _proper_  Halloween party for once. Ned’s determined to get Peter to use his powers in some way, too. (“Perhaps we can crash Flash’s party, if you go as Spider-man,” Ned had suggested, but Peter wasn’t convinced. It was his one chance to wear a different costume... Plus last year, he’d seen at least five Spider-man halloween costumes, and that was just weird.)

He drags Tony inside one of them whilst Stephen picks up groceries for the cabin; they’re going to eat out too, sample some of the amazing fresh seafood the area is known for (probably covered in blueberries) but he’s discovered Stephen loves to cook, and Peter’s dead set on roasting marshmallows over an open fire - it’ll be another thing off his bucket list and Fall has set in here so heavily, it feels like the perfect time to do it. He’s browsing through the animated decorations, inspecting all the electronics that keep them running and imagining how he’d build his own, when he sees Tony join him out of the corner of his eye.

“I always wanted to have a front yard or something at Halloween,” he says without looking up. “Somewhere I could set up really awesome halloween decorations. May and Ben’s house had one when I was a really little kid, and Ben used to put all these decorations out front, like tombstones and skeletons and stuff, like he’d go all out for it. But I’d build my own so that they’d-”

He turns and finds Tony smirking at him, holding a paper bag.

“What’s that?”

“Another lame t-shirt for your collection,” Tony says. Peter pouts and glances down at his current shirt, tugging at the hem. It says ‘Say Watt?!’ with a picture of a lightbulb on it; maybe Tony has a point... but he’s got a playful glint in his eyes and Peter knows he doesn’t mean anything by it. “Seeing as you already stole my one with the electron pun.”

“You leant it to me!” Peter protests. Tony had let him wear it way back in Berlin, after he’d spilled something on himself. If he’d kept it, it was Tony’s fault for not asking for it back.  


“I’m not denying that. Keep it, it looks good on you.” 

Peter flusters at the compliment. Tony hands him the bag and waits for him to open it right then and there - it’s from their halloween rack, a black t-shirt covered in white spider silhouettes that says “Creepy but Cute”.

He has no idea what to say. He paws at the soft shirt, smile creeping onto his face as he holds it up to his chest. “I.. I love it!”

There’s a soft expression on Tony’s face; he quickly hides it and ruffles Peter’s hair, but Peter sees it nonetheless. He decides that even if he can’t have Tony, he’s happy he can make him happy, for a little while at least.

  


They stop for lunch before seeing anymore of the area, at a restaurant called The Travelin’ Lobster that is supposed to be the best in the area. It’s not quite what Tony expects from the reviews (for the ‘most expensive restaurant in town’, they’re paying no more than thirty five bucks each - Peter finds it hysterical how Tony can’t compute this) and they find themselves eating out of paper trays at a picnic bench under a gazebo, but the food is fantastic. Stephen can’t stop telling them about his favourite places in the area whilst they eat.

“How many times have you been here?” Peter asks, shovelling a handful of quesadilla into his mouth. He thinks this about almost everywhere he eats with Tony, but it’s still some of the best food he’s ever eaten.  


“Hmm, perhaps eight times? Maybe nine. I bought the cabin after a few visits, as somewhere to bring Christine.”  
  
Tony bristles at the name. Peter can’t help but press. “Who’s Christine?”

“A friend,” Stephen says, but Tony’s reaction says otherwise. It’s the first time Tony’s reacted anyway but nonchalant around Stephen; the first sign of the two of them having something going on that he’s ever shown knowingly in front of Peter. Stephen notices too. “What, Tony?”

“Oh, nothing.”

Christine is clearly not just a friend.

A look passes between the two older men and Peter can hear their unspoken conversation in his head. He’s never seen Tony jealous before. He can’t help wondering if whatever is going on between them is more...  _serious_  than he’d imagined. His mind returns to the night before, to the practiced touches Stephen was laying on Tony, to the quiet murmurs into Tony’s ear. The memory torments him, shooting straight down to his groin.

“Uh, so... what else do we want to see?” Good save, he thinks. He digs out the guidebook Stephen bought him. “What’s there to do here?”

As it turns out, there’s a lot. Loads more than Peter expected, so he makes a list of all the things they should see because he doesn’t want to miss anything, just in case he never gets another chance to come here. Stephen admits his favourite ice cream in the world comes from Ben and Bill’s Chocolate Emporium, just around the corner (“Better than Ben & Jerry’s?” Tony smirks, and Stephen gives him another  _look_ , and Peter’s very sure he’s missing something) and there is an art gallery he’d like to visit. Tony’s interested in wine and beer tasting at the local brewery, even if Stephen is not impressed with his plan to sneak Peter in with them. Most of the things Peter wants to do are out of the town - dolphin watching, kayaking, rock climbing - but there’s a natural history museum, and he refuses to go home to New York until he’s played them both at a round of pirate-themed adventure golf. When they’re out on the street again, a shop catches his eye.

“Oh my god, they have a psychic shop! Can I get a reading?”

Stephen scoffs. “You don’t believe in that, do you? It’s all bullshit. I would know.”

Tony tells Strange to watch his language and takes Peter straight into the shop with a smirk.

The inside is decked out just how Peter imagines it would be, with velvet curtains and bunches of dried herbs, and dozens and dozens of dream catchers and strings of shells hanging from the ceiling. It’s lit with a mix of neon lights and oil lamps, and sells everything from books on mysticism (Tony buys one for Stephen, just to amuse himself) to crystals and incense, to statues of dragons. They offer tarot readings, but Peter’s after the full fortune telling experience and of course Tony won’t settle for booking less than exactly what Peter wants, no matter the cost.

Whilst they’re waiting their turn, Peter catches Tony staring at him. He smiles shyly back, fidgeting and playing with a box of mood rings on the shop counter. “Mr. Stark?”

“I’m glad you came,” Tony says without hesitation. Peter can tell he means it honestly, but then a flash of regret washes over his features. “You deserve this.”

Peter frowns. He doesn’t like the sudden tenseness in Tony’s shoulders, the sadness in his eyes. “So do you.”

Was that why Tony was spoiling him on this trip? Was he trying to make amends for what had happened on Titan? Peter screamed internally; he wanted to grab Tony by the shoulders and shake him, tell him it wasn’t his fault. Tell him it didn’t matter anymore anyway, because he’d already fixed it.

They hadn’t talked about it yet. Looking at Tony’s eyes, how dull they seem, Peter reaches desperately for something to say that would make it all better.

Madame Urania comes to fetch them before he can speak. They’re led into the back, into the ‘Prophecy Room’ (“because a real fortune teller can’t predict the future just  _anywhere_ ,” Tony whispers to Peter) which is round, draped in fabric and darker than the main shop. In the middle of the circular table is a crystal ball. Peter almost fist pumps in victory; this is exactly the tacky experience he had hoped for.

They sit down and music starts playing; Peter catches Tony trying to swallow a snicker, biting his lips to keep them sealed.

“Maybe we should get Dr. Strange some drapes for the Sanctum,” Peter murmurs under his breath.  


The fortune teller asks each of them if there’s something specific they’d like answers for. Tony is adamant they’re only there for Peter, so he takes a few moments to think about it. He’s not exactly a big believer in this stuff, but he figures he might as well throw caution to the wind for the sake of the experience. So what does he really want to know about the future?

He thinks about college for a while - whether he’s making the right choice going out of state when he could stay home with May and go to a local college, make sure his aunt is well looked after. He wonders if she’ll be okay, if there’s happiness in her future; she’s recently started seeing someone for the first time although she’s not told Peter who he is yet, and he’s hopeful for her but anxious about it all the same. But then he glances over at Tony, and he thinks about the previous night again. His face flusters. He shouldn’t be thinking about whether he has any chance with Tony. The notion is ridiculous; whatever passed between them, Tony clearly sees as a mistake, if he remembers at all. And even if not, Tony and Stephen have each other. Yet here they are at a fortune teller, so why not ask if he’ll ever get what he wants?

“You have your question,” Madame Urania says, before he can say anything. Peter startles slightly, and Tony turns to him, finds him staring. The pink on his cheeks spreads down his neck. “That is one I can answer for you, young man.”

Spooky, he thinks, but this is probably part of her act. He’s always figured psychic mediums can be explained with science - experts in psychology can tell you more about yourself than you even know, after all. There are always tells if you know what to look for; expressions, pupil dilation, reading between the lines. He wonders if it’s a financial lucrative business, telling people what they want to hear about their future.

“Put your fingers on the ball,” Urania instructs. If there is any minute chance of any real sorcery behind what she’s doing, the effect is spoiled by the tacky performance she puts on. “You two, sir.”  


Tony insists again that he wants no reading, that he’s paid for Peter, but does as she asks. She then instructs Peter to voice his question out loud.

He’s very careful with the wording, his eyes darting to Tony to check for any reaction from him as he speaks (that’s probably a tell, he realises.) “There’s something I want,” he says hesitantly, “I probably shouldn’t, but you know, you can’t help what you want... can I-- is there any chance I might get it?”

The fortune teller makes a show of waving her hands over the crystal ball. It has smoke and a light inside it and they swirl around, probably operated by a peddle under the table. She’s doing a poor job at making this believable, but it’s fun all the same.

“Your desire,” she says, and her head snaps to Tony. Yeah, that was definitely a tell. “An opportunity will show itself to you. You just have to reach out and take it.”

Peter tuts under his breath, his hands fidgeting under the table. If she’s guessing at this, she’s doing a very good job. He’s supposed to be leaving it well alone. It’s supposed to be Stephen that Tony wants, but damn it, he’s seventeen and he can’t help being led by his desires. “How?”

“Perseverance is key,” Urania says. She’s looking at Peter again now, but there’s something in her expression that makes him feel like she’s staring straight through him. She knows. He can tell. “The moon and stars will align. Mercury will connect with Venus, and if you’ve held on to what you want, you will reap the rewards.”

Shit, he’s taking this seriously. He tells himself it’s stupid, but he can’t deny the tiny spark of hope that nests inside him, that he might still be able to win Tony over.  
  


 

“Yeah, no. I don’t want Mercury connecting with Venus. Sounds like a disaster,” Tony says, once they’ve left the Prophecy Room. “A universal catastrophe.”

Tony’s laughing to himself, but Peter thinks about having a moon hurled at them, about Tony being run through. About feeling his body crumble into ash, and being reborn again. He thinks about the scar on Tony’s abdomen, and he suddenly regrets going in there.

Urania isn’t done with them yet, though. As Tony’s paying, Peter’s browsing the leaflets at the counter when she comes out onto the shop floor once more.

“Mr. Stark,” she says. Her voice seems different than before. Tony stops dead in his tracks; Peter’s expecting her to ask for an autograph or something - it wouldn’t be the first time that day - but she doesn’t. 

“You are on the edge of cliff,” she continues, her face cold. “Are you ready for what awaits you at the bottom? You know you should jump.”  
  
When Peter looks around at Tony in confusion, he finds his face is set deep with pain, thinly masked beneath anger. He wonders if the older man knows how easily his eyes give away how he’s feeling sometimes.

“I didn’t ask for a reading,” Tony mutters, and leaves the shop.

Tony says the words don’t mean anything to him, that it really is all bullshit like Stephen said. Peter can tell he’s lying, but it only takes moments to figure out he’s not going to give anything up so he changes tack and talks about something else instead. By the time they find Stephen at Ben & Bill’s Emporium buying them all ice cream, Tony’s smiling again like nothing happened.

“Thanks, Doct- Stephen,” Peter fumbles, taking the ice cream with a hungry grin. “Look!”

He digs a flyer out of his pocket that he’d grabbed off the psychic shop’s counter. It’s advertising the Red Cloak Haunted History Twilight Tour, which Peter reckons - if he’s got as good a read on the guy now as he thinks he does - will appeal to Stephen on more level than one. He’d picked it up because the ‘red cloak’ comparison had made him laugh, but it was the idea of a haunted tour that made him hang on to it. He beams as he passes it over to Strange.

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Stephen says bluntly. Peter’s about to complain that he’s a huge buzzkill but Stephen’s smiling at him. “Still, I think we should do it anyway. I bet it’s fun.”

Not tonight though, they decide. The afternoon has already flown by and whilst they have nowhere to be, even Peter agrees some time to relax back at the cabin is already overdue. They take in a few more of the sights before they head back - skipping the winery, although Tony insists he will get them there - and Stephen takes Peter’s phone for a while, getting him to pose in front of some of the harbor’s more iconic spots, like the giant sculpture of a blue whale on the boardwalk and the statue of a moose wearing a raincoat. Peter pretends to complain about them, secretly ecstatic about every moment they spend together. It almost feels like family.

Right as Stephen’s got Peter posing in some moose themed sunglasses in one of the gift shops, he stops and demands Tony get in the photograph too. There’s a little reluctance on Tony’s part (“No, no, go on, do it without me”) but he’s soon playing along, putting on the wackiest accessories he can find and pulling faces to the camera. Peter thinks again about how Stephen’s got a talent for bringing out the best in Tony, and he’s torn again, reminding himself the fortune teller was probably just telling him what he wanted to hear. The debate goes on and on in his head until he decides that he needs to be content with what he’s got here, a pseudo family and a chance to relax with two of the people he cares about the most.

When he flicks through the photographs on the ride back to the cabin, they’re the best he’s ever had in his life.


	3. Riptide

The evening is quiet. Peter works on his school work for a little while, Tony even giving his two cents on one of his papers; he points out a few glaring errors in Peter’s workings and explains what he’s done wrong in a way he completely understands in just a few words. Stephen berates him for interfering but secretly it makes Peter’s heart soar. May’s always tried but she just doesn’t get his subjects - Midtown’s an extremely specialist school, after all. To Tony, it’s nothing. It makes him think back on how long he’s idolised the man; Iron Man has been Peter’s hero since he was eight years old, but he’s been looking up to the man at the helm of Stark Industries for far longer.

May calls him a ‘science nut’, and he’s been one since he knew how to read. Physics, mathematics, technology. Everything that made up Stark, with Tony as the poster boy.

And until they met, Tony was quite literally on posters on his wall. Peter tore off magazine covers with Tony on the cover - Forbes, Rolling Stone, Time Magazine - and clipped newspaper articles about the man, about his company, and his incredible advances in technology. He’d pinned them up behind his desk for inspiration, among clippings of some of his other heroes (Lee Kun-hee, Elon Musk, Bruce Banner, Larry Page) with Tony always front and center.

When he hit puberty, fumbling hopelessly through his own feelings and desires, Tony became the center of his fantasies. It was funny - somewhat embarrassing, but still - to think back on now; how many kids could say their wet dreams had come close to reality? The night Tony had kissed him in the penthouse still felt more like a fantasy than a memory. And now Tony is stood right behind him, correcting his physics homework. He can feel the man’s chest against his back, the warmth of his breath past his ear as Tony speaks. He wonders if Tony even remembers what happened between them; he’d never given any indication he did, even if Peter’s sure he wasn’t so drunk that he’d forget completely. Maybe he does remember, but thinks it was some sort of hot dream - Peter hadn’t stuck around until morning and he’s never stopped wondering what might have happened if he had.

By the time Tony moves away, Peter’s face is pink with the thought of it.

 

Stephen cooks again that night but it’s far fancier than the night before; braised pork shanks with roasted vegetables and chunks of fresh rustic bread. It’s even better than the restaurant they ate lunch at and Peter makes sure to tell him so between loud, noisy mouthfuls. His appreciative groans as he licks his fingers clean don’t go unnoticed by Stephen or Tony, but Peter’s so engrossed in his food that he doesn’t see them looking. After dinner on the deck, Peter offers to clean up (leaving the two of them alone, half hoping he’ll catch the two of the them getting touchy again, and cursing himself for thinking it) and by the time he returns to the table Stephen’s got the fire pit blazing with a bag full of marshmallows and a plate of cookies waiting.

“Oh man, are we gonna make s’mores?” Peter can’t contain his excitement, dropping cross-legged to the ground next to the fire pit. “I’ve always wanted to try real ones!”

“We know,” Stephen says, handing him the plate. “You’ve only mentioned it fifty times, Peter.”

None of them know the technique - Stephen remembers making them once as a child (but as he says, “that was decades ago, Peter”) and Tony’s not had homemade ones before either - but they do their best. It feels like there should be more ingredients than just the marshmallows and the cookies and what Peter constructs ends up more of a sticky mess than a sweet cookie sandwich but that doesn’t take away from the taste of it, or the enjoyment. It feels like a movie moment, sitting on the soft earth and leaf litter beneath the trees, melting marshmallows with two people he loved to be around.

Tony doesn’t say anything whilst they eat. It takes a while before Peter notices how quiet he’s being, and longer before he decides he should try to do something about it. After all, he’d thought it just that morning - how could anyone be unhappy here? They’re overlooking a lake, the whole shore to themselves, with the sun setting in deep purples and blues behind a forest of orange leaves. They’re roasting marshmallows and stuffing their face with melted, sugary goodness. 

But Tony isn’t happy. That’s what Peter’s starting to realise.

No matter how much fun they’re having, no matter how many moments Tony is laughing and joining in the fun, there’s something fundamentally wrong that he can’t get past. The realisation cuts Peter deeper than he expects. May was just the same after Ben died.

He tries to keep the mood up whilst they eat, talking about things he knows Tony will enjoy talking about – asking about Stark projects, and questions about MIT that he already knows the answer to because he knows Tony will get a kick out of answering them. He eats until he’s so full of sugar he feels sickly, and sips on the fruit cider Tony’s let him have (Stephen’s insisting, “only  _one_ ”) until he’s giddy and relaxed with the buzz of it. He pokes at the fire and skips stones on the lake, talking all the while. Anything to keep Tony from whatever is going through his head.

But Tony’s only putting on a brave face. There’s no light in his eyes when he smiles like there had been the night before, and Peter can’t decide what’s changed. He seemed fine in the town; something’s mellowed him. Stephen can tell too. He’s watching Tony like a hawk.

“Something on your mind, Tony?”

Peter’s kind of glad Stephen asked before he did.

“Nothing worth discussing,” Tony rebuttals, sinking down into his seat. He’s got his phone out in his hand, flicking idly through it. “No signal here. I’ll have to check in with Pepper at some point.”

It could be Pepper on Tony’s mind, Peter thinks. He’d never met her properly; he knew her and Tony had been engaged before Thanos’ children arrived in New York, and that they now weren’t engaged anymore. That was all he knew. He’d wanted to ask about it but for once in his life, Peter had managed to keep his mouth shut. He wasn’t an idiot; he could tell when something was probably a sore spot. 

“Around the other side of the lake,” Stephen offers, his voice soft, pointing towards the trees. Peter selfishly wants him to press further, because someone has to. He wants Stephen to get a proper answer out of Tony (if he doesn’t know already - but Peter wants to be there, to hear it, so he can know too) but he can see that’s not going to happen. “There’s a ranger’s hut – the connection is far superior on that side.”

He’s going to have to press Tony further himself.

The opportunity presents itself when Stephen goes to check the Sanctum again. It’ll be a long time before Peter’s not rendered speechless watching Stephen work his magic – he’s left in wide-eyed awe as the portal sparks into life out of thin air and disappears behind the Doctor. There’s a rush of warm air from the sanctum and with it comes a wave of scent, wood oil and incense and something more, something older and more alluring. The smell reminds him of the cheap joss sticks burning in the psychic shop and he laughs.

“Smells like the ‘Prophecy Room’ in there.”

Tony snorts a laugh. It’s the first time all evening. “You should tell him that when he comes back.”

He’s sat on one of the sun loungers on the deck, his legs dangling off the sides. Peter stays quiet for a moment and watches him, working up the courage to say what’s on his mind. He wants Tony to know how he feels - not just in the hero worship, fantasising way, but the care he feels for him too. It’s weighing so heavily on his mind that he can’t just leave it, even if he feels like he’s overstepping his mark. Is asking Mr. Stark personal questions is too familiar? Tony’s words ring in his head - “We’re not there yet.” But so much has happened since Tony said that to him, he doesn’t know what Tony thinks of him anymore. Where is the line?

Peter knows in his heart he’s putting too much weight on the words of someone who was probably just telling him what he wanted to hear, but the fortune teller’s reading is still buzzing in his head. Perseverance, and he’ll reap the rewards.

He doesn’t want Tony to be angry with him – he just can’t shake the feeling it might be the welcome distraction Tony needs. In his head Peter’s thinking about the moon and stars, and reaching out for what he wants. What he wants - really wants - right now in this moment, is to help Tony be happy, however he can. He thinks of the pure bliss on Tony’s face the night before, the freedom found in the pleasure, and thinks perhaps he can kill two birds with one stone. Stephen’s not here right now to help out, after all.

“That stuff the fortune teller said to you,” Peter begins carefully. Tony’s head snaps around to look at him and whatever emotion he’s feeling is deeply concealed. “What did it mean to you?”

“I told you earlier. It meant nothing.”

“But it didn’t mean nothing, did it?”

“Hmm.”

There’s something dangerous in Tony’s eyes suddenly. It’s not threatening, though – it’s indecipherable. He looks a little like an animal trapped by a predator, waiting to see what it’s going to do next.

The thought that he might be seen as a predator, by anyone, made Peter want to laugh.

Instead he stands up from his spot by the fire and moves over to Tony’s sun lounger, taking advantage of the fact he was straddling it to sit down close to him, almost between his legs. Tony shifts but says nothing about it, so Peter shuffles slightly closer. “I know you think I’m just a kid,” - his mind takes him back to Tony’s penthouse, to the smell of whiskey on Tony’s breath and the rough of his beard against Peter’s neck, his hands roaming over Peter’s chest – “but… but you’re my friend, Mr. Stark. And you try to look after me all the time, a-and that’s great, you do it so well, you do more than I could ever repay you for but… well…”

“Kid.” Tony’s looking at him pointedly. Peter’s resolve is waning, but he’s there now. He’s right there beside Tony, close enough to touch him, so he does. He reaches out and boldly touches his thigh. Tony doesn’t flinch.

“I want- I just want you to know I’m there for you too, you know? I-”

“Parker,” Tony interrupts again, but when he doesn’t say anything else, Peter continues. He’s probably saying too much. This is a mistake.  _Perseverance._

“I know you’re not okay. I’m not gonna make you tell me what’s wrong, but I do wanna… help.” His hand moves ever so slightly up Tony’s thigh, his fingers brushing gentle circles against the fabric of his pants. Tony’s still making no move to stop him so he lowers his voice in a way that he hopes sounds seductive and leans in closer. “I’ve been thinking about all the things I could give you to show you just how much I care. Just how much I appreciate you.”

Tony wets his lips. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Peter yet but he drops them now to Peter’s hand, shifting in his seat again. If he didn’t want this, surely he would have stopped him by now? 

Still, Tony is silent. Peter feels the air between them grow thick with tension, nerves clenching his throat closed. His hand is almost at Tony’s groin. Just a few more inches and he’ll be touching it, and Tony hasn’t said anything at all. His mind fills with images of the night before again, of Tony’s cock enclosed in Stephen’s hand, how much he wishes that had been him touching Tony.

“And if I can make you happy, Mr. Stark,” he says, replacing Stephen’s hand wish his own in his imagination, and leaning ever closer. He could kiss Tony so easily from this distance. “If I can make you feel  _better…_  I think I owe you that, don’t I?”

Peter can pinpoint the exact moment he says the wrong thing.

Tony takes hold of his wrist, not forcefully but assertively, like a teacher giving instruction; he moves Peter’s hand from his leg and looks him dead in the eyes.

“You don’t owe me anything.”

He stands then and climbs off the lounger, digging his phone from his pocket again. “Need to go make a call.”

Shit. 

 

Peter’s heart plummets into his gut. He knew he was making a mistake. He watches Tony as far as he can see him walk away, then buries his face in his hands; he feels like crying, but even crying feels too self-pitying. He berates himself in silence because he should have known better, not mixed offering his support and offering himself like that. He got greedy and now Tony is going to think his kindness is ingenuine, fuelled by the lust of a stupid, overeager teenage boy.

Was it? Is that all Tony is to him? Peter knows that’s not true, but it feels true in the moment and he hates himself for it. He tries to think back to the penthouse again, to remind himself Tony wanted him before and that he wasn’t being stupid, but his memory twists what he knows happened until he feels like he’s fabricated every look, every touch Tony’s ever given him. Did he take advantage of Tony being drunk when they kissed before? 

He’s ready to believe anything.

Dragging his feet inside, Peter starts clearing up again because he has no idea what else to do. Tony’s such an important person in his life - his idol, his fantasy, but first and foremost his _friend_ \- and now he’s ruined that. Probably. He finds the stack of cider in the fridge and opens another one, drinking it on the couch and hugging his knees, wondering how he could be such an idiot when he was so smart. Honestly, what did he think someone like him could do for Tony Stark anyway?

“Miserable isn’t a good look on you, Peter.”

The portal closes behind Stephen as he speaks. Peter barely glances up from where he’s resting his head on his hand, drink halfway to his lips. He appreciates Stephen not running to his side asking what’s wrong, or asking what he’s done this time, like so many of the adults in his life seemed to do.

“Sorry,” he shrugs, taking another drink. Stephen doesn’t say anything about the cider, despite his insistence earlier.

Instead, he goes to the kitchen and gets a drink of his own.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It turns out that yes, he does want to talk about it. He doesn’t quite tell Stephen what he did, but he does tell him he thinks Tony’s angry with him. That he pushed their conversation too far, like the stupid kid that he is, and now Tony’s gone off on his own. That he wishes he was older and wiser and more experienced in these things, because all he wants to do is help but it feels like almost everything he does always turns out to be a mistake in Tony’s eyes. That he can never seem to impress him. Never do right by him. Never make him proud. Then he tells him that he’s worried about the way Tony’s been since everything happened, but that he’d only realised today how bad it really was. That he’s scared, because he’s seen other people he loves in that state before, and with May it was almost the end of her.

He wears himself out saying it, talking around what he knows he’s really thinking; he’s already lost so many people. He can’t bear to lose anyone else.

Acting on his stupid, teenage feelings for Tony should have come second to his love for him as a friend but as always, Peter’s messed it up just because he’s a dumb kid.

Stephen listens quietly. It’s the first time in a very long time Peter feels like someone’s really listened to him.

“Come on,” Stephen says softly, when Peter’s exhausted himself talking. He touches Peter’s shoulder and it’s the most comforting thing in the world. “You need to relax.”

By relax, Stephen means the hot tub. And it’s definitely relaxing; the heat envelopes his over-heightened senses and Peter feels every muscle in his body sigh with relief as he sinks into the water, in his real swim shorts this time. He’s ready before Stephen so he gets a few minutes of utter peace, staring out over the water again. With everything that’s happened, everything he’s seen, Peter knows the world is still a good place and he’d argue it to anyone. All they’d need to do was sit quietly, take in what was around them, and they’d see it too. For every bad person, there are ten more willing to stand up to them. For every injustice, crime, arrogant choice, there is rebellion, selflessness and charity in tenfold. For every failure, there are people rising up again, seizing victory and success in their broken hands, in spite of their broken hearts. Peter hangs onto the notion; it’s what brought him to where he is. It’s calming until he remembers that somewhere out in those trees, Tony’s on the phone, or whatever he really went to do. 

A lump forms in Peter’s throat at the thought, so he drains the rest of his second cider and wills Stephen to hurry and join him.

He’s never seen Stephen anything other than fully clothed – even last night, even as he unravelled Tony with nothing but his hands, he was still wearing everything he’d been wearing through the day. And yet he’s here now, almost fully unclothed, except for the short, tight swimming trunks Peter’s too distracted to notice until Stephen’s climbing into the water right in front of him. They don’t leave much to the imagination but they’re mercifully submerged before Peter can spend too long looking.

“Better?”

“Yeah, a little.” Peter sinks deeper into the hot tub until his shoulders are under, his chin resting on surface of the water. “Sorry if I went on and on.”

“Don’t be. Everyone needs to talk sometimes.”

They’re both silent for a few minutes, and the next thing Stephen says is the last thing they say on their previous topic of conversation.

“Tony has been through a lot, for a very long time,” he says, noticing Peter staring into the trees across the lake again. Peter hopes he doesn’t look too much like he’s pining. “He’s still processing. That makes anyone volatile. But believe me, he’s not angry with you. He couldn’t be.”

There’s more Stephen could say, but he doesn’t. Peter doesn’t press this time. He’s already made that mistake once and he doesn’t want to alienate both of them.

He wishes he knew what the Doctor meant.

Instead, he concentrates on Stephen’s body, something to focus his mind on. He’s got broad toned shoulders and strong collarbones. He’s more muscular than Peter would have imagined under his clothing, particularly his arms, and unlike Tony his chest is completely hairless. There are a few small moles dotted across his milky skin like a constellation, and barely visible, Peter can see a littering of tiny white scars. He’s seen the scars on Strange’s hands before but these are lighter, not so deep. There’s just so many of them.

“I had a car accident,” Stephen explains. Peter realises he’s been staring at his chest for a while and flusters, turning his face away. His embarrassment slides right past Stephen though, who goes on to tell him briefly about the accident; how he was a neurosurgeon before he ruined his hands, and found sorcery seeking out alternative medicine to heal them.

It’s nice, Stephen opening up to him. For once Peter feels valued as an adult, not just a child. If Stephen’s been harsh about his age (or lack thereof) in the past, it doesn’t show now. He’s treating Peter as an equal.

“So that’s why it’s ‘Doctor’ Strange,” Peter teases, hiding his chin underwater after he’s said it to conceal his smile.

“Quite. I do have a PhD, you know.” Stephen smirks, winking at him. Peter’s glad his face is hidden. “I used to be very, _very_ good with my hands.”

“From what I saw last night you still are.”

Shit. Damn him and his big, unstoppable mouth. Peter’s eyes go wide and then squeeze shut and he sinks under the water completely, hoping the bottom of the hot tub will somehow open up and swallow him whole.

He’s suddenly acutely aware this is the first moment Stephen and him have had alone since he’d been caught watching them, and he’d sworn to himself he wouldn’t be the first to bring it up.

But here they are.

The water is too hot to stay submerged for long. When he surfaces, Stephen’s still looking right at him. He’s moved closer, hardly enough to be noticeable, but Peter’s senses are forever in overload and he’s more than aware that the space between them is shrinking.

“Enjoyed that, didn’t you?” Stephen says. His voice remains steady, even matter of fact. Peter nearly chokes on the lump in his throat. “How long were you watching?”

“Uhhh - not that, not that long? I mean, I just heard - I thought-” Peter stammers, ringing his hands in his swim shorts under the water.

“Long enough to be touching yourself.”

Shit. Of course Strange had seen that. The man was hyper observant. Then again, he’d been the one to take it further even after he’d seen Peter standing there.

“Well, it was - shit. It was really hot,” Peter says quietly, his face burning. He can feel the heat right down to his cock too, despite how humiliated he feels - or perhaps because of it. “I couldn’t help myself. You didn’t… didn’t tell Mr. Stark, did you?”

Stephen is a lot closer now. He’s crowding Peter into the corner of the hot tub, his hand resting on Peter’s knee under the water. Peter’s swim shorts suddenly feel a lot tighter. Stephen leans in, right against Peter’s ear. “I like it when you call him that.”

“M-Mr. Stark?”

It’s not a denial or a confirmation. Peter feels slightly nauseous with the thought that Tony might have known what he did last night, all through the day they’ve just spent together.

“Mmm.” Stephen groans in appreciation and Peter knows there’s no denying himself that he’s turned on now.

This wasn’t part of the plan, what little there was of one. This wasn’t meant to happen. (Maybe he hadn’t been imagining it, and Stephen had thought of kissing him the night before. The thought made his head spin.) 

“I like the way it sounds coming from those pretty little lips of yours, Peter.”

“Doctor, I-” Peter has no idea what he’s going to say. He could tell Stephen to stop, he _should_ tell Stephen to stop (but why should he? His jumbled mind can’t find many reasons.) He could tell Stephen not to stop. God, he wants to feel those skilled hands on him right now, to feel what Tony felt last night. He’s already straining again his shorts, half hard just from the husk of Stephen’s voice, the breath on his ear. The water is too hot. They’re too close. He wants Stephen to touch him, anywhere, and touch him quickly, his fervent senses begging for stimulation.

He doesn’t know what’s going on between Strange and Tony and he’s afraid to ask, in case he kills whatever is happening right now, but the idea of hurting Tony anymore than he already has tonight consumes him, beats him to the chase.

“You and Mr. Stark,” he starts, wishing he sounded more confident and seductive than he does. Stephen’s hand leaves his knee, and the few moments of separation have his heart pounding violently against his ribcage even though the hand quickly finds his waist. Peter shivers, letting himself be guided until he’s facing the older man. “Are you…?”

“He doesn’t care what I do,” Stephen says. It’s stated as a fact but there’s a purr in his words that Peter can’t ignore. He didn’t mean for this. Didn’t want this. God, an hour ago he was trying to seduce Tony and less than that he was spilling his guts to the man in front of him, the man he was now only inches away from, except this time there was no reason not to reach out and touch whatever he feels like touching. He wants Tony so badly it makes his head throb, but the memory of Stephen from last night, the images in his head as he’d jerked off to the sound of them fucking - it’d drive anyone insane. He realises Stephen is waiting, with all the patience and reserve he’s always shown, for Peter to make the first move.

To hell with it. He’d offered himself to Tony already and been carelessly rejected.

Caution to the wind, Peter leans in, closes the gap between them and claims Stephen’s lips with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh ho ho, a cliffhanger? Let me know in a comment if you're liking this story so far! If you haven't noticed, the chapter titles are song titles.


	4. Start A Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter has taken a while, I've been writing and rewriting it for days! Thank you so much for all your positive feedback, it's making me so happy and encouraging me to keep writing.

There’s a moment of pause as Peter’s lips meet Stephen’s; probably no longer than a heartbeat, but for Peter it feels like an eternity. But it’s over before he can panic, and then Stephen is kissing him back; slow but greedy as he tastes Peter’s mouth. It’s a filthy kiss and if Peter hadn’t been aroused already, this would be more than enough. All of Stephen fills his heightened senses; he can feel the coarseness of Stephen’s beard rough against his face, the tang of alcohol on his tongue as it brushes against his own, even swears he smells the sweet incense of the Sanctum on his skin, and it’s intoxicating.

Stephen breaks away first. Peter is ready to give himself up to the kiss, to melt into it and keep kissing the man in front of him forever, because parting again leaves room for all the anxiety and guilt that is bound to follow. But when he opens his eyes again, Stephen’s staring back at him, his eyes brimming with want.

“Oh,” Peter murmurs, something clenching in his chest. He’s not used to being looked at like that by anyone.

“God, you’re beautiful.”

Stephen’s fingers grip at his waist, another scarred hand taking hold of hips and suddenly he’s being lifted into Stephen’s lap, the water making him feel weightless and giddy, his head spinning from the cider and the heat of the tub.

Peter wants to say something but he doesn’t know what. All he knows is that Stephen’s touching him like he’s something special and no one - not even Tony - has ever touched him like that. Stephen leans in to kiss him again and Peter meets him half way, hungry for more.

They don’t break the kiss again even as Stephen grinds up into him and Peter can feel the hardness of his cock pressing against his ass, the water frustratingly desensitising. He rocks back against the motion, desperate for more friction, his hands gripping Stephen’s shoulders without a moment’s consideration for his own strength. If Strange minds, he doesn’t show it. His own hands slide around Peter’s waist and down, down into the waistband of his shorts until they’re stroking over Peter’s ass cheeks, parting them so he can rub himself against Peter properly.

The feel of Stephen’s hardness pressing against his ass is exhilarating, tormenting even. Peter whines into Stephen’s mouth, but finds himself silenced quickly by his tongue. The fabric of their swimwear does little for the friction, dampened so much by the water of the tub but Peter meets Stephen’s hips with his own, drunk with need and uncaring about how desperate he must seem. His mind is flooded with images of Stephen and Tony together and the fantasy of joining them spurs him on.

“Jesus, Peter,” Stephen gasps as he pulls back. Peter’s hands tangle in Stephen’s wet hair, try to draw him back into the kiss. Stephen thrusts up against him and draws another needy whine from Peter’s throat. 

“This sucks,” Peter groans, his head falling to Stephen’s shoulder, hips still grinding down desperately. “The water. Fucking sucks.”

The idea of fucking in the hot tub is so hot in his mind, but he needs more, needs them to go somewhere else, where he can feel Stephen’s body against his own properly, skin on skin. The plea falls from his lips before he can stop himself.

 

Stephen’s more than happy to oblige. He doesn’t even need to click his fingers or open a portal to make it happen. Peter feels the world fall away from underneath him for the briefest flash of time before he’s somewhere solid again, the rough fabric of the cabin couch pressing against his hot, wet skin. The magic sets his oversensitive nerves alight, his senses flooding with Stephen - his scent, his taste, the beat of his heart against his ribcage - as the older man’s body presses down on top of his own, their chests crushed hard against each other.

Finally, _finally_ he can feel the grind of the sorcerer’s cock against his own and he bites impatiently at his lower lip, tugging him into another kiss. His senses are so awake, so alive, and every touch feels like a fire starting underneath his skin. He still feel so guilty, like he’s betraying his long term crush on Tony, but he knows he’s too far gone in this already to stop now. It’s wrong. Debauched. The feeling ignites something in him, an excitement he’s never felt before.

Stephen moves to his neck, sucking and licking at his damp skin as he ruts against Peter. The sensation sends shivers shooting down his spine. Peter’s knees are bent, one leg trapped between Stephen and the cushions and the other hanging uselessly off the side of the couch until he manages to wrap it around Stephen’s waist, heel dig in and urging him on. He writhes underneath the doctor, unsure where to put his hands - they roam over Stephen’s broad back, nails digging in as he feels teeth against his throat hard enough to bruise, and up into his hair again.

Peter’s fingers tighten and pull, hard enough that Stephen jerks back and looks at him.

“Shit, sorry,” He stutters, embarrassment flooding his face again. His cock twitches and he hates that he’s getting even more turned on by how shameful he feels.

Stephen raises an eyebrow slowly, leaning back down to Peter’s ear and murmuring right into it. “I’m sure you will be.”

Peter sucks in a sharp breath, his eyes falling closed. “I’m sorry,” he says again, more purposefully this time, looking to draw another reaction out of Stephen.

The Doctor groans into his ear, nips at it. “You have no idea all the bad things I think about when I look at you, Peter.”

Peter presses his red face into Stephen’s shoulder and asks him to tell him. He feels Stephen swallow hard before he speaks.

“You know I was thinking of you last night.”

Peter tenses, eyes squeezing shut, breath caught in his throat. All he can muster is a whimper as his hips buck up against the sorcerer’s. 

“Thinking of the filthy things I want to do to you,” Stephen growls, “Whilst I fucked Stark, right here on this couch. Thought about how I’d like it to be your ass stretching out around my cock whilst you begged me for more. I bet you’d be such a little slut for it.”

Stephen’s words, his low, filthy tone - it’s all too much for Peter. He realises too late as the wave of pleasure crashes over him and suddenly he’s coming in his shorts without even being touched. A sob rips from his throat, muted into Stephen’s shoulder, his hands clutching hopelessly at his back as he rides out the unexpected orgasm, until he falls limp against the couch. He never imagined Strange would be so dirty.

It’s the first time he’s been with anyone since he’d come close to touching Tony in his penthouse, and only the second time he’s had any sexual contact at all since the spider bite dialled all his senses up to eleven, but even still he’s ashamed. The humiliation makes his cock twitch against the wet fabric of his swim shorts and he’s forced to swallow hard before he can catch his breath, or dare to look at Stephen. He can still feel the sorcerer’s cock pressing hard against his thigh and now he stops to think about it, he’s aware of just how huge it feels. A soft moan spills from his lips at the realisation. Peter finally opens his eyes, heavy with the rush of his orgasm. The heat of his arousal subsides and he can feel the stickiness of his cum mingling with the water on his sodden shorts. He doesn’t want his mind to clear, because that would mean thinking about what he’s just done.

“Mmm, so beautiful,” Stephen murmurs again, leaning up on his elbows above him. Peter peers up at him with wide eyes, nervous about what he’ll find.

Stephen’s not judging as he looks down at him, his normally tidy hair falling around his face in a way Peter doubts anyone could deny is incredibly sexy. He whispers another apology to the man above him, expecting and enjoying the lustful groan it draws out of Strange.

“Did I say something you liked, Doctor?” Peter rocks against Stephen’s erection teasingly, testing the waters. The spark of his initial lust has subsided and he’s not feeling so confident in himself anymore, but by the way the man’s eyes darken, he’s doing something right.

 

He could probably work himself back to hardness again pretty quickly, but right now he’s fending off the guilt and panic trying to settle into his over-energised mind. The real shame, not the kind that makes him want Stephen to flip him over and fuck him right there regardless of whether he’s turned on or not, threatens tears in the corners of his eyes so he’s got to act fast to stave them off. He doesn’t want to leave Stephen wanting, and the doctor still looks so hungry for it, his expression calm but his eyes hungry, like an animal in heat.

“Let me make you feel good,” he says quietly, against Stephen’s cheek, pressing a kiss to the pale skin in the wake of his words. “Please, doctor?”

The soft pleading seems to do even more for Stephen than his embarrassed apologies. Peter can work with that.

“I want to touch you. Can I touch you?”

Stephen growls low in his throat and shifts himself off Peter to sit back on the couch. “You can touch.” He pats his thigh. “Come here.”

The command rolls off Stephen’s tongue, drawing Peter in. He crawls into Stephen’s lap, sitting across his thighs. Now he’s here, he’s not sure what to do, but Stephen’s patience gives him time to explore - he starts with his hair, his fingers stroking through it slowly, brushing the messy strands away from where they’d fallen wild around the doctor’s face. From there he leans in for a kiss, slow and dirty as his hands drift down Stephen’s cheeks, stroking his strong jawline, then to his shoulders. 

Peter turns his eyes down to the man’s broad chest as he strokes circles into his skin, fingertips brushing over his nipples, soft in the warm air of the cabin. He pinches one of them experimentally and Stephen gasps, head tipping back.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he mutters, grabbing Peter’s ass and heaving him closer into his lap, close enough that Peter can feel Stephen’s cock against his own again. He rolls his hips, met with a needy thrust up against him.

Peter slides his hands further down, fingertips just brushing at the waistband of Stephen’s tight trunks, the older man’s cock straining at them painfully.

“Can I?” He asks, looking Stephen right in the eyes and biting at his lip. He already knows the answer.

Stephen groans and gives him permission, demands that he does. Peter’s fingers dip below the elastic at last, brushing the head of Stephen’s swollen cock and finding it already sticky with pre-cum. His heart thunders in his chest, suddenly desperate to see what he’s touching. His fingers slip further down, encircling his shaft and Peter lets out an unanticipated moan at the thickness of it in his hand. He pumps his fist over it curiously, watching Stephen’s face all the while, delighted at the silent shudder that racks through him. His cock is thick, not as thick as Tony’s but long too, heavy in his grip. “You’re so big,” he whispers, mainly to himself, but Stephen hears

The words earn him a dark laugh and Stephen kisses him again as Peter’s fingers begin to work over his length in unpracticed strokes. He’s clumsy with inexperience but it doesn’t seem to matter to Stephen, quiet sounds spilling from his mouth into Peter’s as they kiss deep and dirty.

Cold against his hand, the damp elastic of Stephen’s trunks restrict his movements and make it hard to jerk him off in any kind of rhythm. He breaks away from the kiss, resting his face in Stephen’s shoulder once more to concentrate.

Stephen’s lips press to his ear, hot breath against his skin as he whispers another demand.

“On your knees."

Peter stills, breath catching in his throat again. “I’ve never- I mean, I know how, but-”

He knows what Stephen wants him to do, but he’s never sucked anyone off before. He tries to explain as much to Stephen, that he wants to, that he’s just inexperienced, fumbling over his words and embarrassing himself further, but Stephen simply takes him by the wrist and guides Peter’s hand back out of his trunks. He manoeuvres him onto the floor until he’s kneeling between Stephen’s thighs.

“I’ll teach you,” the older man reassures. Peter’s own cock twitches at the notion. Stephen was certainly a good teacher. “I want to feel that pretty mouth around me.”

Stephen pulls his cock from his wet trunks. It looks even bigger than it felt and Peter swallows hard in anticipation, eager to taste it now. It still feels shameful, perhaps even more so to be so willing to take the sorcerer’s cock in his mouth, and he’s starting to accept the way the shame turns him on.

“Taste it,” Stephen says. Peter obeys, leaning closer until his lips are pressed to his cock, tongue darting out of his mouth to lap up some of the pre-cum leaking from the slit. “Take the head in your mouth and the rest in your hand.”

He does as he’s told, half hard again himself already and convinced he’ll let Stephen do anything he wants to him at this point, even if he wants to fuck him. Since his night with Tony, Peter’s thought of giving himself to no one else, but Stephen is right here, so gentle and yet so commanding, and he’d be so hard to resist. He suckles around the swollen head of his cock until he’s licked it clean, his hand stroking over the length of it.

Stephen orders him to take as much as he can in his mouth and he does, slowly swallowing down the shaft. It stretches his mouth and he gags around it, a flutter of panic in his chest as how hard it is to breathe, but then he’s slipping it from his mouth and taking a short breath before sucking it down again.

Peter’s eyes fill with tears as he chokes around it, disappointed to find he can’t fit even half of it in his mouth, but Stephen murmurs praise to him as he works into a rhythm, one scarred hand burying itself in his hair and pushing him a little further every time. He can feel it hitting the back of his throat, pictures Stephen holding his head still and fucking his mouth and he moans at the mental image, his free hand coming to his groin to palm at his own hardness.

“Good boy,” Stephen groans, hips twitching, threatening to force his cock deeper into Peter’s throat. “You’re doing so good, baby.”

Peter pulls off, turning his attention to the shaft in the way he’s seen in so many dirty videos, dragging his tongue over the length of it as his hand works at every inch he couldn’t reach with his mouth. He swallows it again, head bobbing faster, cheeks hollowing as he sucks it down. The obscene sounds coming from his own mouth color his face bright red and he slips his hand into his own shorts, stroking himself roughly to the rhythm of his mouth around Stephen.

Stephen’s fingers tighten in his hair, pulling at it sharply as he starts to unravel. His hips jerk up, forcing him painfully deeper into Peter’s throat as his orgasm rips through him, back arching against the couch as he grunts in pleasure. Stephen tries to pull back but he’s too slow, the first few ribbons of cum shooting against the back of Peter’s throat, the rest spilling across his lips and his cheeks, dribbling obscenely down onto his chest as Peter sucks his cock back into his mouth to lick it clean. It’s salty and unfamiliar on his tongue but the twisted, lecherous look on Stephen’s face as he watches him makes it worth it.

The door goes.

Peter pulls back like a skittish animal, fumbling backwards until he trips over himself and onto the rug with a yelp.

“Peter-” Stephen starts as he tugs his trunks back up, all the pleasure on his face replaced with worry, but Peter’s already scrabbling back to his feet. “Peter, hang on.”

He can’t have Tony see this. He just can’t. He can’t comprehend how the other man would react to seeing Peter between Stephen’s knees sucking him clean, face covered in his mess, especially not after Tony and Stephen had been together less than twenty four hours earlier. His heart hammers inside his chest so hard that he feels lightheaded; he’s backed into the corridor by the time Tony steps into the room, and shut himself in the bathroom before Tony can see him. 

Locking the door, he slides down it onto the floor and drops his head back against the wood, catching his breath.

Shit. He feels awful for abandoning Stephen out there, flustered and still reeling from his orgasm, but the thought of being caught by Tony is even more stressful than having to face Stephen after leaving him to be found like that alone.

The shame finally catches up with him as he takes stock of his appearance in the bathroom mirror. His hair is mess, still damp and sticking up all over the place, and his face is plastered with cum. The litter of hickeys Stephen left on his neck are already starting to fade and he’s never been more thankful for his accelerating healing than he is right then. His swim shorts are still wet and the mess he made inside them has cooled, his own cock still sitting half hard inside them; his cum feels gross against his stomach as he peels the shorts down and kicks them aside.

For lack of any other idea of what to do, he turns on the shower and steps into it, cranking the heat up as high as he can stand and rinsing the mess off himself. His head is spinning, the realisation of what he’s just done sinking in but not settling; he has no idea what Strange is telling Tony right now, or how he’ll look either of them in the eye after this. After his failed seduction with Tony, then sucking Stephen off like some hungry little slut. Had it mattered it was Stephen? Would he have given himself to anyone in that moment? He feels filthy.

Despite himself, his cock demands his attention. As he jerks himself to a second finish with his eyes squeezed shut, it’s to thoughts of Tony catching them and joining in.

 

Peter manages to sneak to out of the bathroom and back to his room without running into either of them. He hears no voices and finds the double bed empty with Tony nowhere in sight, but makes no move to look for him this time - instead he puts clean pyjamas on and wraps himself up in the covers of the pull out until nothing is visible but the top of his head, wishing himself far away from this embarrassment. In the post-bliss cold haze that has followed almost every orgasm he’s ever had, he feels wrong. 

He can’t put his finger on why. It’s not because his fantasies - and today, his actions - have all been with other men. He’s well past accepting his sexuality. It’s not even the age difference; since he was old enough to jerk off he’s been doing so to the mental image of much older men, school teachers and celebrities, and even one of May’s new boyfriends (that was one of the worst cases of feeling wrong he’s ever experienced.)

He can only put it down to the way he sees himself in the situations he imagines - depraved, used, humiliated. Peter’s ashamed of how much he likes the idea of it. It’s as though his right mind slips away when he’s turned on and comes back when he’s done, only to berate him for not being more vanilla and boring in his fantasies.

Peter’s never had a boyfriend. Part of him thinks all these dirty desires are the reasons why. He’s got no idea how anyone would satisfy them, if he ever mustered the courage to voice them out loud, and how he’d ever find satisfaction if he didn’t. But the dark desire in Strange’s eyes has burned into his memory and he knows he wasn’t imagining it. The way the older man writhed and preened at his innocent tone, the way he took command and praised him. The way he’d enjoyed Peter watching him bring Tony off without even letting Tony know they weren’t alone.

All Peter’s fantasies about Tony had been softer than this. He’d imagined sleeping beside him, being wrapped up in his arms. He’d imagined spending all their time together, working alongside each other in Tony’s workshop and stealing kisses behind closed doors. He’s never dreamed up such softness as he does with Tony and Peter’s sure it’s half the reason his obsession has run so deep, but now his brain is muddled, buzzing with different desires for different men.

Both of them, he remembers again, are somewhere nearby. Probably sharing their experiences with him, maybe even laughing at him. God, he hopes not. He hates his brain for supplying a new wave of worry and upset, burying his face into the pillow and trying his best just to fall asleep. He can’t believe he let himself fuck this up so badly, within such a short space of time since they’d arrived at the cabin - he should have stuck to just being their friend.

When he can’t drift off, Peter lays there in the dark staring at the ceiling, waiting anxiously for Tony to come to bed. He doesn’t. Peter turns the light on, digs out his headphones and plays music on his phone for a while.

Turns the light off again. Lays there a little longer. The first time he checks the time after putting his phone down, only fifteen minutes have passed. The next time, it’s two hours. The cabin has been silent. Something is setting his nerves on edge. He doesn’t know if it’s just his anxiety, or if it’s his super senses, but something’s not right.

Where the hell is Tony?


	5. Need the Sun to Break

A rush of cold air snakes around Peter’s bare skin in the dark, startling him into alertness. His eyes are open, searching for the light where there is none, one arm groping out in front of him for something familiar; his skin feels clammy with sickness, his body weightless and yet sluggish with exhaustion, and he’s nervous, though he can’t place why.

_“Hello?”_

His mouth and nose fill with a fetid, sulfurous smell he recognizes but cannot place. The scent is nauseating and metallic; like wet gunpowder, or burning rubber, mixed with the rot of death and decay.

Titan. He’s smelling Titan.

His throat closes so tight he can hardly breathe. He’s standing in the burned and broken wasteland, dirt floating around his head like leaves in the wind, in nothing but his pajamas. He’s exposed and totally alone – no suit, no weapons, no Tony or Stephen. He can feel the crumbling earth beneath his bare toes. He cries out for help, but the atmosphere seems to swallow his words, sucking them in like a black hole. There’s nothing ahead of him as far he can see, nothing to either side, and he’s too scared to turn around and look behind him. He wraps his arms around himself and starts walking.

He doesn’t know how long he walks for when he hears footsteps behind him, the creaking of floorboards. Low voices in the distance talk in words he doesn’t understand, too far for him to hear clearly, but Peter knows they’re talking about him. Saying he’s too young to die, but some things just have to be.

_“You know, I have to tell you, Pete.”_

The voice cuts through the dry air, rattling inside Peter’s skull. The garage is dank and foggy with dust, bigger than he remembers it, stretching far, far into the distance. The voice bleeds out from the walls around him, from the empty spaces where the moonlight doesn’t reach.

_“I really, really admire your grit. I see why Liz likes you.”_

Two green eyes light up in the shadows right before his face, too close for comfort. They’re attached to a flight mask and two huge mechanical wings which unfurl in the darkness like an unholy creature rousing from sleep. Peter steps back, stumbles on the uneven ground and barely catches himself on his elbows as he falls. The eyes are gone as quickly as they appear. Somewhere beyond where he can see, he hears a door open. It sounds too close, like it should echo through the room but it doesn’t. He sees a figure step out of the darkness, silhouetted in the haze of dust.

_“Ben!”_

No, no no no, what’s he doing here? He shouldn’t be here, it’s too dangerous—

Something cracks across the sky like thunder and he throws his head back to see huge shards of rock hurtling towards them, missiles from Titan’s shattered moon. Peter screams again for his uncle, hears the crack of a gunshot long before the rocks make their impact with the twisted landscape around them, the garage walls shaking and crumbling as he struggles across the rocky alien terrain. He’s aware of the screams tearing from his throat as he runs but he’s deaf everything but the sound of his own heart beating as he reaches the body, crumbling to his knees beside it.

It’s not Ben at all. It’s Tony. Tony, staring up at him through glassy eyes, blood oozing from the bullet wound in his chest.

There’s no time to think as Peter tries to stem the bleeding, desperately putting pressure on the gaping hole, blood spilling over his fingers as the tears start making tracks in the dirt staining his face.

_“No, no, please, I can’t lose you.”_  He’s sobbing, his whole body trembling. He can hardly see now, the tears blurring his vision, but he doesn’t blink, can’t bear to look away.  _“I can’t lose you too.”_

Tony shushes him, a gentle comforting sound, speaks calmly.  _“You’re alright.”_

_“You’re- you’re bleeding, you’re gonna die, gonna- I’ve got to-”_

“You’re alright,” Tony repeats, reaching to stroke his face. “I’m here. Shhh, I’m here.”

Tony’s voice is soothing, and it takes Peter a few long moments to realize he’s still in bed, with Tony sat beside him in the relative darkness of the bedroom. The covers are tangled tightly around his legs and the sheets are slick with sweat from where he’s been fighting against them, twisting and jerking around in his sleep. His body aches with it, and his throat is sore, making breathing slightly painful.

“Mr. Stark..?”

“I’m here,” Tony says again. “It was just a dream. I’ve got you.”

His fingers brush over Peter’s cheek and he leans into the touch, exhausted and defeated by the nightmare. He’s still catching his breath as his eyes search the darkness for any sign that he’s still dreaming, but he really is back in the cabin on the pull-out bed.

His advanced eyesight adjusts quickly to the dark, as it always does, and Peter can see as clearly as day. The clock beside Tony’s bed reads 4.43am. He realizes the footsteps, the talking, the creaking floorboards – they all must have bled through from the cabin, because Tony is still dressed and Peter gets the distinct feeling he’s just gotten in.

Tony wipes at the tears on Peter’s face. He hadn’t realized he was crying, but he quickly rubs his face with the back of his hand in embarrassment and sits up. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Tony murmurs, brushing Peter’s hair back with his fingers. “We all get them.”

He nods lamely and leans into Tony’s touch until the hand leaves his hair and Tony pulls him into a hug. His arms find Tony’s waist and they sit like that in silence for what feels like forever. When Tony lets go of him, it’s still too soon.

“Want to talk about it?”

Peter’s not sure he does, but talking helped with Stephen the night before and if there’s anyone he wants to talk to about this stuff, it’s going to be Tony. He feels like he’s explaining it all wrong as he tells him about Titan, about the garage, about Tony bleeding out. The only thing he keeps to himself is seeing Ben – he’s still not ready to open up about that yet, not to anyone – as he stumbles through the memory of the nightmare as quickly as it can before it slips away completely.

“Since I became Spider-man, every dream is so much more vivid,” he admits as he finishes the story. “I guess it sends my senses haywire or something. They feel so real, like I’m just reliving my memories.”

Tony is quiet for a while before he speaks, choosing his words carefully. “If I could, I’d promise not to let anything happen to you ever again. I know I can’t protect you from these things… but I can promise to try. You deserve to be safe… You should never have been through any of that in the first place.”

Something is wrong. Peter can tell by the sag of his shoulders, the furrow of his brow, even as he comforts Peter. His voice is quiet but there is anger in the tone of it, directed out into the world and back at himself. Peter waits, leaves time for Tony to keep talking, but he doesn’t. He messes Peter’s hair and pats his shoulder, stands up. Starts shedding his clothes, his shoes and his jacket, as though suddenly and thoroughly determined to avoid the conversation.

Peter can’t leave it though, not even after messing up so grandly only hours earlier. Not when Tony looks so distraught like that. He waits for a moment longer, to see what Tony’s going to do, but he does nothing. He lets his clothes drop to the floor and sits on his own bed, hands gripping at the edge of the mattress. He looks so dejected. Peter feels a pang of guilt in his chest, because Tony’s having a hard time and here he is, demanding comfort from some stupid bad dream.

He slips out of the pull-out, ignoring how gross his pajamas feel against his sweaty skin.

“Mr. Stark? Can you turn a light on?”

“Scared of the dark now?” Tony teases. As he reaches for the side lamp, Peter sees him school his expression until he looks the same as he usually does – not quite happy, but untroubled, even complacent. He mustn’t know how well Peter can see in the dark.

Peter has always taken it for granted that Tony Stark felt like that. Realizing it’s a near-permanent mask hurts like a knife to the gut.

“Yeah, that’s it. Just reeling a little, still.”

Tony looks him up and down in the soft glowing light, any hint of his internal torment gone from his face. “You look like shit. Nice pajamas, tourist.”

“A credit to your glowing sense of style,” Peter teases back, glancing down at the ‘I Survived My Trip to NYC’ t-shirt. It’s not paired with the pink fleece pants right now (he didn’t even bring them on the trip, a little embarrassed of what Tony would think if he knew he’d kept them) but he assumes Tony recognizes the shirt at least.

Apparently not, if the confusion on his face is anything to go by. Peter gently reminds him they were the awful clothes Tony stuck him after taking away his Spider-man suit.

“That was-” Tony tuts, reaching out to touch Peter but thinking better of it just before his fingers brush Peter’s stomach. “It was supposed to be a punishment, you know. Not a gift.”

“Everything you buy me is a gift,” Peter grins, taking a seat beside Tony on the bed. He drops down onto the mattress with a little too much force, bouncing them both slightly and earning him a grumble from Tony. Still, a real grumble is better than a fake smile.

Here in this moment, it’s easy to forget the mess he made of things the night before. It’s easy to pretend he hadn’t fucked up, made a move on Tony and made him flee the scene. That he hadn’t broken down in front of Strange and then gotten down on his knees and sucked him off twenty minutes later. Or fled the scene afterwards without discussing what it meant for the two of them, or whether Stephen would tell Tony about it. For all he knows Tony is sitting there in the full knowledge of what he’d done. The thought makes his head reel even more than the bad dream did and he has to take a moment to steel himself and clear his mind. Tony wasn’t acting weird around him like he probably would be if he knew; if anything he was acting kinder than usual.

(Could that be a sign he did know, though? He had to stop overthinking it.)

“Do you want to sleep in my bed again?”

Tony’s question is so unexpected, Peter doesn’t even believe he’s heard it at first. He looks at Tony in bewilderment, and Tony repeats himself with a raised eyebrow, reinforces that he’s only offering because Peter had a bad dream.

Peter flushes with embarrassment at the thought, his cheeks burning so hot that he’s sure he’s gone pinker from head to toe than even the stupid Hello Kitty pajamas he’s got under his pillow back home; Tony makes him feel like such a child sometimes.

“Yeah,” he breathes, once he’s finally found his voice again. “Yeah, if that’s alright?”

“I offered, didn’t I?”

Before Peter can think of anything else to say, he finds himself tucked up against Tony once again under the covers of the double bed. It’s much comfier than the pull-out and he has to admit, Tony’s warmth against his back and the arm tucked under his neck really does make him believe he’ll be safe from bad dreams for the rest of the night. He can feel Tony’s steady breathing against the back of his neck, the arm around his waist tightening and pulling him in closer to Tony’s chest. He’s aware of just how close they are, of how his ass is pressed against Tony’s crotch, covered now in nothing but boxers, but he’s too exhausted to really think of the connotations in the moment. He’s supposed to be pressing Tony for answers, he realizes.

“Were you out all this time?” He says, his voice sluggish and tired.

“Came back to get the car,” Tony explains. “Had to drive a way to make a call after all. You were in the shower, I think.”

Peter turns it over in his head. It makes sense, but he can’t shake the panic that had washed over him when he’d been trying to sleep. He’d been sure his super senses were picking up something unsavory, something to do with Tony, but he could’ve been wrong. Could have just been anxious… (It’d never happened before but there was a first time for everything, he supposed. Right?) ...but he feels more like Tony is keeping something from him.

“That all? It’s like 5am… you were still dressed.”

Tony just hums in response like he’s drifting off to sleep, but Peter can still feel his gaze. Tony’s dismissing the question. He feels a flare of worry once again. Had Tony not come to bed because he wanted to avoid him? Had he really scared him off that far? A million questions start to spin in his exhausted mind, demanding answers before he can rest.

Shifting, he wriggles until he’s on his back, turning his head to face Tony. This is probably a mistake, but he’s got to say something or he’ll probably never sleep again. “Hey… about yesterday…”

Tony stops pretending to be asleep. Peter feels him tense up, sees his eyes searching to meet Peter’s gaze in the once again darkened room.

“If I- I’m sorry about-” He starts, but he feels stupid trying to put it into words. Sorry for what? ‘Sorry I’m a bad flirt’ doesn’t really cut it. He’s sorry he overstepped his mark. Sorry he can’t help how he feels or what he wants. Sorry he remembers their night together, even if Tony doesn’t, and that he can’t let it go. Peter’s chest aches at the thought, at their proximity and the feel of Tony’s arms around him for a second night in a row. He doesn’t want it to stop and he’s afraid whatever he says will cause Tony to disappear again. “It doesn’t matter.”

“No, go on. What were you going to say?”

He feels Tony’s arms tighten around him, draw him in closer. Peter’s breath hitches in his throat and he’s forced to rein in his imagination before he’s left daydreaming about kissing Tony again, or worse, he can’t keep from making another terrible move. Trying to win Tony’s heart feels like a chess match, and Tony’s always one step ahead whether he realizes it or not.

“Just… I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable. And I hope-”

“You never could,” Tony interrupts. Peter falls silent, staring into his dark eyes. The moonlight pouring in through the thin curtains behind him makes him look ethereal, a living dream. It’s a cruel trick of the light, to make him look so perfect. “Okay?”

Peter just nods.

Tony tells him to get comfortable so they can steal a few hours of sleep before the sun comes up, so Peter rolls back onto his side and snuggles back into Tony’s chest once more. He decides it’s the safest feeling in the world, being wrapped up in his arms. Being with Tony makes him feel like everything is going to be okay, no matter what. He lays there for some time, enjoying the simple pleasure of being held so lovingly and innocently. He can’t remember the last time someone held him like that; perhaps May, when he was a child.

Just as he’s about to drift off, too far gone to drench himself back from the clutches of sleep, he swears he feels Tony press a kiss to the back of his head.

“You could do so much better than me, kid.”

He doesn’t have the energy to argue.

 

By the time Peter wakes up, the alarm clock reads quarter to twelve and panic spikes through him because he’s wasted half a day. Tony is no longer beside him and the absence of his warmth is far more obvious and upsetting than Peter would care to admit. He’s out of bed in moments and digging through his duffel bag to find something to wear, slinging on an old check shirt over the new t-shirt Tony bought him; the shirt is red and navy blue, one of Ben’s that Peter hadn’t had the heart to throw out, which is something he only remembers as he checks himself in the bathroom mirror. It tugs at his heart strings and threatens to bring nostalgic tears to his eyes as he combs his hair back with his fingers (it’s getting too long, but Peter can’t decide what to do with it next, so he’s leaving it) but he fights them down and finally he’s ready for what’s left of the day.

Except the cabin seems to be empty again. Peter goes through the motions of panic and disappointment that they’ve left him behind because he’s too lazy, but they’re quickly dispelled and replaced with the sharp sting of jealousy when he sees them through the back doors, out on the decking.

Lip locked.

Stephen’s sat in one of the chairs and Tony’s leaning over him, kissing him deeply, distracting him from his newspaper. Peter’s throat goes dry and he almost drops the glass of juice in his hand, but he’s quick enough to catch it with the other as it slips from his fingers.

They haven’t seen him, so he slips away. He doesn’t know what he’d say if Tony looked up and saw him standing there, not after what he’d said and done the day before, with Tony and with Stephen.

If winning Tony’s heart is a chess game, he thinks again as he puts his drink down on the side and creeps the other way, he’s lost half his pieces already and victory is slipping away from him. Besides, with Stephen in the game now too, Peter’s not even sure who he’s playing anymore.

He’s not even sure where he’s going. He walks out of the front door and into the woods, trying to clear his head.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Peter says out loud, to himself. He runs his hands through his hair and growls in frustration. “What was I thinking?”

He can see Stephen’s eyes staring down at him from the couch, filled with lust, as clearly in his memory as he could last night. He swears he can still  _taste_  him, and he can most definitely feel the burn of choking around the other man’s cock (the source of his sore throat, he realizes grimly.)

Peter is torn. So torn. Sucking Stephen off was probably the single hottest thing he’s ever done in his life, and god, Stephen Strange is a filthy man. But Tony – Tony is everything. Being with him is everything.

And the two of them are back there in the cabin. With each other.

Where they belong, he tells himself. He can’t let himself get in the way of that. He’s never seen Tony smile quite like he does around Stephen and right now, that’s something Tony needs.

_“You could do so much better than me, kid.”_

The words ring in his memory. He’s not even sure he heard them right, but he gets the gist of what Tony was saying. It’s another rejection.

He picks up his pace, starts running. Not to get away. Not really. Just to feel the wind around his face, to stretch his muscles and feel alive. He wishes he’d brought his web shooters - he’d left the cabin too quickly to think about it - but at least he can climb the trees, jump between the branches.

 

 

Peter’s not sure how long he runs and climbs, barely breaking a sweat as he makes his way through the woods. By the time he makes it back to the cabin, his hair is wild around his face, his eyes shining as the thrill of it courses through his body.

“Interesting choice of outfit for a workout,” Tony quips as Peter slows to a stop to catch his breath at the back door of the cabin. Peter glances up, catches Tony’s gaze but he can’t hold it. He looks away again fast, avoids looking at Stephen all together. “Loving the beige pants, they really show off the, uh… the dirt stains.”

Peter’s face heats up as he glances down to see what Tony’s talking about. His slacks are streaked in mud and sap from climbing, some of it in very conspicuous places. He curses under his breath and tries to brush it off to no avail, Tony looking on and chuckling to himself.

“Thought we could check out that brewery this afternoon. Maybe that ghost tour you’re crazy for. If you’re game?”

“Oh- yeah? Yeah, I’m game if- let me just get changed,” Peter says, giving up on his slacks. It’s weird how ordinary everything feels. It’s just another day, despite everything that’s happened. Peter feels a little out of sync with the world around him as he heads back inside the cabin to change; his head is so full with worry and frustration, it’s hard to know what to focus on first and yet he wants so badly to enjoy this trip, to not let anything - not Stephen, not his feelings for Tony, or his anxieties - get in the way of the brief time they have here. He knows he’ll regret it if he does.

Peter’s so caught up in his thoughts, he doesn’t hear Stephen follow him inside. He’s half out of his pants before he sees him in the bedroom doorway, letting out a squawk of surprise and almost tripping over himself.

“I thought we might have a word before the two of you go out.”

“You’re… not coming?”

“I will join you later,” Stephen says, stepping inside the room. In two strides he is beside Peter, two fingers stroking across his cheek. Peter freezes like a deer in headlights. He wasn’t anticipating anything to happen this morning, possibly not even at all with Stephen after his vanishing act the night before - and certainly not with Tony just metres away after he’d seen them kissing this morning.

“What- what did you want to-” Peter stammers, leaning into the touch despite himself. “To talk about…?”

“Last night.” As if it wasn’t obvious. Peter braces for whatever is going to follow. Stephen’s fingers slip below Peter’s chin, lifting it until they’re making direct eye contact. “I had… a lot of fun.”

Peter’s breath hitches as Stephen closes the gap between them, stopping just short of his lips. Peter knows what he’s doing, putting the ball back in his court, waiting for him to make the first move again. He hates being put in this position.

“Tony’s right outside,” he murmurs, making no move to pull away.

“Mmm, he is.” Stephen wets his lips as he speaks. The urge to kiss him is so strong; it’d be so easy just to drive forward and lose himself in Stephen’s mouth again but it’s not the right thing to do, not right now.

It takes all of his willpower to step back.

“We shouldn’t… not right now,” Peter argues. He knows his voice is giving away how much he’s struggling with this but Stephen doesn’t push him. He can’t help being a little disappointed that he doesn’t, but he fights the feeling back because this is how it needs to be right now. For his sanity. “Just ‘cause… I mean, I’m gonna get all worked up, and-”

“Later, perhaps?”

“Yeah, yeah- later, we can.”

Stephen leans in and presses a kiss to Peter’s cheek softly. “Till later, then.”

With a wave of his hand, he’s opened a portal back to the Sanctum, and then he’s gone. Peter sits down on the bed and breathes a shaky sigh of relief, because he can already feel a shiver of excitement from the proximity they were just in and he knows another moment or two and he would have given in. He kicks his slacks the rest of the way off and struggles into a clean pair of jeans just as Tony calls for him, grateful to have staved off the inevitable disaster he’d put himself in for just a little longer.

Now he gets to spend the rest of the day completely alone with Tony.

Peter tries to ignore the giddy feeling swelling in his chest as he races to the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You've probably guessed by now but I have no idea how many chapters this is going to be. I was aiming for five, then seven, but now we're already at five and I'm not close to the ending I had planned! So let's bump the total chapters up to 10 and see what happens from there.
> 
> Thank you so much for all your feedback on this fic so far! It was supposed to be short but here we are, I'm invested. If you're enjoying it and want to see more of these ships, I'd love to receive some prompts over on my tumblr - I'm happy doing drabbles, headcanons, moodboards, full fics - http://starkerravingmad.tumblr.com/ask
> 
> Also just because I think it's cool, the smell of Titan is based on the actual smell of the surface of Mars! 
> 
> Keep those comments coming, they inspire me to keep me writing every day. Love you guys!


	6. Kiss Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still not beta read!

“Do you want to try?”

Tony’s offering out a small glass of sugary pale ale poured straight from the machinery. They’ve been there for half an hour, taking a private tour around the factory. The tasting tours of the brewery are usually free, Peter learns, lasting less than a half hour and taking place mainly in the brewery bar in groups, but a flash of Tony’s credit card and a double take on his face and they’re behind the scenes getting a full factory tour from their chief brewer.

Being Tony Stark has it’s benefits, obviously. Including no one asking Peter to prove his age. 

“You shouldn’t be encouraging me, you know,” he says, quietly enough that their tour guide can’t hear. Tony presses the glass into his hand anyway and he puts up no resistance in taking it. “If I get in trouble for this, that’s on you.”

“You’re not going to get in trouble,” Tony scoffs. He’s probably right. 

It’s not that Peter’s never had anything to drink before this week, anyway. It’s more the taste. Of the couple of beers he’s drunk in the past at parties, and the red wine him and Ned snuck from his aunt’s room one night when she was out, he’s never found something he enjoys besides fruit cider. Not to mention he’s always felt very little from it; the buzz he got from last night’s drinks is about as bad as it’s ever been. He figures it’s just going to be one of those things, part of his spider bite mutation. If he can’t really get drunk, what’s the harm in trying a little craft ale underage? The glasses are small as it is.

The first thing he notices about the drink is how good it smells, before it even reaches his lips. It’s sweet and buttery, reminds him of butterscotch. The chief brewer is pleased to find him smelling it (he’s only copying what he saw Tony do, but happily takes the credit for knowing what he’s doing) and tells him all about the history of the beer and the flavour notes, bragging a little about their particular brew. 

“The style was virtually extinct when we decided to try out our recipe,” he says. “We practically resurrected the traditional honey brewing style from its origin in Wales, and it has started quite a trend across the industry.”

Tony raises an amused eyebrow in Peter’s direction and he hides a smug smile into the glass as he takes a sip. It’s not that bad. The honey aftertaste certainly makes up for the bitter flavour. Before he knows it, he’s drained the glass.

“Like that?” Tony asks as they move on.

“Mmm. Very rich and tawny,” Peter mocks, biting his lip to contain his laughter. “Full-bodied and _extremely_ complex.”

His remark earns him a deep laugh out of Tony. He slings an arm around Peter’s shoulders as they cross the factory floor to the next beer to taste. There’s several small batch craft beers, local favourites and seasonal specials. His favourite is probably the ginger ale because it tastes like ginger beer, and the leaf-peeping red ale because he’s damn determined to enjoy fall for all it’s worth, even if the flavour is kind of too strong. Tony’s more handsy with him at every stop, gently guiding him around the room with a hand on the small of his back, nudging his arm, ruffling his hair. The touch is more than welcome and Peter spends time trying to find ways to get Tony to touch him more.

“Last one,” Tony says as the brewer leads them to the next batch. It’s not actually the last one, but after seven glasses he’s actually starting to feel a little dizzy and giddy.

“Hey, I can handle more!” Peter protests. He’s enjoying the comfortable closeness with Tony, how happily touchy he’s being as they walk around, and he’s enjoying feeling grown up. Beer taste testing has got to be one of the most unexpected and mature things he’s ever enjoyed doing. “We don’t have to stop here.”

“If we’re ever going to make that ghost tour you want to do with you in one piece, we do.” Tony laughs and brushes a few stray strands of Peter’s hair back from his forehead. Peter can’t help leaning in to the touch a little, barely swallowing back a whine as Tony takes his hand away again.

“Here,” the brewer says, pouring out two glasses of their final beer and handing them across. “One for you, Mr. Stark, and one for your son.”

Peter freezes, hand outstretched for the glass. His cheeks burn red as he looks over at Tony, at the floor, anywhere but at the brewer. They’d acted so close this afternoon, he’d been starting to worry someone in the factory might see something more between them than just friends… but this was something else.“Uhh…”

“He’s not my son,” Tony snaps, staring daggers at the man as he takes his drink. “You do know who I am, right? I don’t have any children. You think he’s some illegitimate son or something?”

The brewer immediately flusters and apologises, forcing his best customer service smile onto his face as he hands them their drinks. He explains that this last drink is a stout, rather than an ale. It’s smoother and creamier than ale, with notes of chocolate and vanilla (‘notes’ means ‘hints’, Peter’s gathered, but he’s yet to be able to pick anything specific out of the drinks - they all just taste like beer to him) and this one is brewed in coffee.

“I… don’t like coffee,” Peter says. He looks at the inky liquid in his glass apprehensively. “I had it once before and it made me feel kinda… funny.”

“You won’t taste the coffee much,” the brewer admits. “It’s just a subtle note.”

He’s still unsure, but Tony’s already smelling his glass, so Peter follows suit. He doesn’t want to chicken out of his last drink after fussing about it. He can certainly smell the coffee, but the malt is strong too; it actually smells even better than the other drinks so he throws caution to the wind and takes a big gulp.

It’s nice. It’s really nice, actually. It’s a little bitter, but he can really taste the caramel softness of it and the malt makes him feel like he’s not even drinking alcohol. His eyes light up and he grins into the glass. “Wow, it’s actually- it tastes really good!”

He downs the rest of the glass in one, licking his lips happily to swipe up any remnants of the drink.

“I think we’ve found a favourite,” Tony tells the brewer, who’s finally left smiling as he wraps up their tour and directs them to the shop where they can buy any of the drinks they’ve just tried for themselves.

Which Tony does, of course. He buys most of their stock of the coffee stout despite Peter’s protests that he’s had more than enough already, and a large amount of the honey ale to share with Stephen and some of their local brand Thunder Hole Ale, which he tells Peter is for Thor. They only carry a few bottles of it out of the store - Tony has the rest shipped home instead - and carry on across the compound to their barbecue restaurant because the shop teller insists it’s the best part and that they shouldn’t miss it.

Tony’s not convinced that it’s not just good upselling, but they’re starving anyway (Peter’s not eaten since the night before, he realises, but doesn’t tell Tony) and it smells really good. By the time they’re given a table, Peter’s not feeling so steady on his feet anymore.

 

“Did you know, restaurants seat their most attractive customers in the windows?” Tony says as they read their menus, throwing a wink in Peter’s direction. “I think that waitress thinks you’re cute.”

Peter laughs weakly. His stomach is turning over and he’s so lightheaded he wishes he could lay down (is this being drunk?) but he’s determined not to let it spoil the rest of his time alone with Tony. “It’s probably more something to do with who you are, you know that right Mr. Stark?”

He doesn’t care about any waitress thinking he’s cute anyway. A year or so ago, he might have gone pink to the tips of his ears and tried to check her out, but he’s got enough on his plate romantically as it is.

Tony looks great today, he realises. It’s not that he’s not spent all day looking at him, but now he’s desperate to focus on something; his vision is swimming too much to read and Tony is always worth looking at. He’s wearing his glasses and a grey shirt with a black hoodie over the top, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. It’s form-fitting, showing off his broad shoulders and slim waist Peter’s so attracted to. He’s wearing a silver watch with a black face, probably expensive although Peter is no good at guessing brands. It must be his favourite because he’s seen him wearing it lot in the last few months. He looks incredibly handsome - Peter prefers him in these casual outfits because he sees him in suits so often, it’s almost a treat. Tony always seems more relaxed when he’s dressed down, too. The glasses hide the dark circles under his eyes well; he’s been meaning to ask Tony if they do anything special, or if they’re just for style, but the right time never seems to roll around.

“Did you hear any of that, kid?”

Considering how hard he’s been concentrating on Tony, he hasn’t heard a word spoken to him. Peter gapes slightly, searching for an excuse to give.

He settles on just apologising instead, fumbling over his words until he gives up trying to talk entirely.

Tony puts his menu down, concern spreading on his face. “Pete? What’s wrong?”

Is he? He’s not really sure. He’s never been drunk before, but this doesn’t feel anything like he expected it to feel. 

“I dunno, I-” he starts, trailing off as he tries to word it. “Just don’t feel so good.”

There’s got to be a scientific explanation. Peter knows alcohol is a depressant, not a stimulant, yet he feels restless and agitated. It could just be the beer reacting with his unique genetic make up - there’s not exactly any studies on the side effects of beer on mutations caused by radioactive spider bites - but the fact he’s never felt like this before makes him question that further. Surely even a little, even the cider the night before or the wine he stole from May, would give him negative side effects if that were the case. It would probably require some further analysis when he wasn’t feeling so out of his head, but…

“Mr. Stark..?”

Tony’s gone still, staring at him as though he’s just seen a ghost. 

There’s a long, painful silence where Peter’s not sure what to do before Tony shakes himself out of it and jumps into action. 

“What are you feeling? Do you need to leave?” he says hurriedly, already getting out of his seat. “I can get you out of here, anywhere you need to go.”

“No,” Peter says, only somewhat aware how quiet his own voice has gone. “I’m alright. Just… kinda nauseous.”

Tony pauses again, but it’s not with so much shock in his eyes. He’s leaning on the table close to Peter and Peter can see the panic leave his expression, replaced with something unreadable. He takes a deep breath before he speaks again. 

“Shit, okay. I shouldn’t have let you drink that much,” Tony reflects, clapping Peter on the shoulder and squeezing it gently. “Strange is going to kill me if he sees you like this. We need to get some food in you, and some water.”

Peter barely hears what he says; his head feels like it’s about to drop off his shoulders. As Tony goes to retract his hand he stops him, grabbing at his sleeve to support himself and whimpering slightly. His heart is hammering against his ribcage, rattling his whole body. He barely notices Tony’s arm slip around him, body reacting autonomously, drawing in towards the warmth of Tony’s chest. People are probably staring at him. Peter flusters, hiding his face in Tony’s shirt, because he hates to cause a scene and he’s probably drawing loads of attention to them both.

“On second thoughts,” he hears Tony say, although it sounds distant, like he’s listening through water. “Let’s just get you out of here.”

 

They end up on the pebble beach at the end of the boardwalk. Peter sits with his head between his knees whilst the world spins; the chill of the fall air clears his mind a little bit, although he still feels lethargic and groggy. 

“How’re you doing, kid?”

He can hear Tony approaching behind him, footsteps crunching in the stones, although the sound is sort of diluted. If he’s honest, it’s nice to have his senses dampened for once. He looks up with a brave smile and finds Tony stood beside him, two silver foil wrapped burritos in his hands.

“M’okay. God, feel like shit though,” Peter laughs, raking his fingers through his hair. He’s still slurring his words slightly, but at least he doesn’t sound so out of it anymore. “If this is being drunk, I don’t get it, you know? Why do people drink? This is awful.”

Tony takes a seat beside him and offers one of the burritos over to him. 

“Lobster, cream cheese and you guessed it… blueberries. In a burrito. I realise this might make you feel worse, rather than better, but when in Rome.”

Peter takes it cautiously and the two of them unwrap the strange food conception and try it. It’s actually not half bad, and as soon as the first bite hits his stomach Peter realises exactly how hungry he is. It’s messy but he eats it slowly and systematically, making sure not to waste a single flake of lobster or drop of sauce. Tony devours his like he’s never tasted food before, licking his fingers clean and screwing the foil wrap into a ball with a satisfied grin.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says, tossing the ball in the air and catching it again. “I don’t think you’re actually drunk. Hear me out. You said the last time you had coffee, you felt strange afterwards. I reckon it’s the caffeine that’s doing you in.”

Peter glances over at him, taking another bite. A glob of creamy sauce drips from the burrito, dribbling down his hand.

“How’d you figure?” He asks through his mouthful of food.

“There was a study on the effects of psychoactive drugs carried out by a NASA research team in 1995 - well, the work should really be credited to a Swiss guy, Peter Witt, in the 50’s but never mind that - in the study, they used spiders,” Tony says with a pointed look his way. Peter’s in the process of licking his hand clean but Tony’s theory catches his attention. “You know I’m no biologist, Banner would probably be able to clarify for you, but by the way you’ve described how you’re feeling I wouldn’t say it’s a far stretch of the imagination to suggest your… spidery… genetic mutation is giving you an unwarranted reaction to caffeine.”

“What happens to spiders on caffeine?”

“They get stupid,” Tony says with a grin. “Disorganised, incredibly dysfunctional. But if I had to make a call, I’d say you’re going to be fine.”

“Okay. I trust you.”

Another drip of sauce runs down Peter’s fingers with his last bite. He slips them into his mouth, swirling his tongue around them to lick it up without a second thought. It really is good, really fucking good, and he wishes there were more of it. Dipping his fingers into the foil, he scoops out the sauce that has gathered at the bottom of the wrap and licks his it off his fingers again with a contented groan.

It’s only once they’re clean that he looks up to find Tony staring at him and realises what he’s doing. Peter’s still got his fingers half in his mouth and he only hesitates for a moment before he sucks them back in slowly, keeping his eyes on Tony as he does it. 

Tony doesn’t look away. Peter closes his eyes and moans softly, pulling his fingers from his mouth with a wet pop. His tongue darts out to swipe over his lips. When he looks up again, he does so slowly, through his long lashes.

“Jesus kid,” Tony mutters. 

If he was in his right mind Peter would probably think twice about this, but he’s not. All he can focus on is the part in Tony’s lips, the way his big dark eyes drag over Peter’s body. Tony shifts, runs a hand through his hair, and Peter knows he’s having an effect.

“Mmm, you okay, Mr. Stark?” 

He hopes he looks half as alluring as he feels as he moves closer, his shoulder brushing against Tony’s. Tony brings a hand up Peter’s face, his thumb swiping over the corner of his mouth where there’s still a smudge of cream and Peter parts his lips, leaves the choice up to Tony. He feels breathless, fixed on Tony’s gaze as the older man dips his thumb into Peter’s mouth so he can suck it clean, his cheeks hollowing around it. All of a sudden the air feels thick and too hot, the space between their bodies too close and too far all at once. He wants to take this further but he’s scared too, of pushing Tony away again with his advances. Peter takes hold of Tony’s wrist gently and turns it so he can press a soft kiss to his palm. Tony strokes his face and the touch is so tender that in his slightly delirious state, Peter feels like he might cry. 

“I want to kiss you.” The words are out of Peter’s mouth before he can stop himself. There is a plea in his voice even he doesn’t expect. Tony’s still touching his cheek. It’s a good sign. “Please, Mr. Stark.”

“Pete. I…” Tony trails off, drops his gaze. Peter’s so frustrated, all the mixed signals, not knowing where he stands with the man, that he feels a wave of anger wash over him. He can’t take this anymore. He’s already dizzy with the caffeine trip, so much so that putting himself out there one last time can’t do that much more damage, even if he gets hurt again.

“Look at me,” he demands, moving Tony’s hand away from his face. His movements are loose and fluid, and he knows he’s not in complete control of himself. Still, Tony heeds his request. “I- I want you, Mr. Stark. I’ve wanted you for so long, so damn long and it’s just not fair. You’re all I can think about. And since that night in your penthouse, even if you were- you want me too. At least, you did! And I hate that I don’t even know if you remember that! I can’t take this anymore. I know about you and- but- just… if you meant any of that, do something about it.”

Tony is silent. His eyes flicker back and forth across Peter’s face, and Peter can see a million thoughts turning over in the cogs of his mind but he can’t read any of them. It’s infuriating. He can feel tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, blinking them away as fast as they form.

“ _Please_ , Tony.”

With a hand on his waist and another on the back of his neck, Tony pulls him closer and kisses him.

All the oxygen rushes from Peter’s lungs as their lips collide, his dazed mind struggling to make sense of what’s happening and for a moment he can’t do anything, can’t even kiss back. The kiss is so gentle, barely even there. Tony moves back far too quickly but Peter chases him, kissing him again, his arms coming up to circle Tony’s neck and hold him close. He’s not letting him get away again.

Tony groans softly into Peter’s mouth, lips parting to deepen the kiss. He lavishes his tongue against Tony’s, desperate to taste him but wanting to draw the moment out for as long as he can, feeling like the whole world will shatter and fall away from him the second this is over. 

His hands skim down to Tony’s shoulders, using them as leverage to climb into the older man’s lap. 

“Pete-” Tony mumbles into his mouth as Peter pushes him back, laying him flat on the rocky beach. “Wait, wait.”

Peter pulls away, leaning on his hands above Tony, his floppy hair falling around his face. It could be the lightheadedness, or just the physical touch, but he can already feel himself getting turned on and he doesn’t want to stop. Tony’s looking up at him with those huge, beautiful eyes.

“We can’t,” he says. Peter’s heart plummets into his stomach. He opens his mouth to protest, to argue that it’s so obvious they both want this, that there’s nothing that should hold them back, but Tony shushes him. “I can’t. Not right now.”

“What? But- why?” 

The tears are back in his eyes. Peter hates how hard it is to control his emotions and the fact he’s slightly out of his mind isn’t making it easier. Tony sits up, an arm around Peter’s waist to support him. He presses their foreheads together and breathes out a laugh. “You’re out of your head right now, Petey.”

“So? That doesn’t change how much I want you-”

“Yes it does.” Tony interrupts. His expression is laced with determination. “I know you meant what you said just now. Okay? And I do remember the penthouse. All of it.”

Peter whimpers. Tony kisses his forehead, stroking his fingers through his hair to push it back. “But I’m not doing this whilst you’re high, kiddo.”

“But we can talk about it when I’m not, right? Can’t we?”

Tony sighs and nods, pressing another brief kiss to his lips. “When you’re feeling better.”

He wraps his arms around Peter and pulls him close, and Peter rests his head in the crook of Tony's shoulder. He's safe and warm, and the scent of Tony's rich cologne calms him, stops his heart from racing so fast. He's sure he'll be okay soon. With Tony here, there's no way he can't be. And then... then Tony will be his.


	7. As You Are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took me so long, it's been a really busy week. For anyone that isn't, I'd love for you to follow my Starker-centric tumblr http://starkerravingmad.tumblr.com where I do all sorts of moodboards and headcanons and stuff (requests too!)

Feeling better takes way longer than Peter wants it to. They take a walk around the town for a while, Tony trying to coerce him into enjoying more of the shops and sights, but the only thing on Peter’s mind is kissing Tony again. Unfortunately, all being so distracted does is keep Tony convinced he’s not feeling great.  


Which he isn’t. 

He’s still rambling, his head all over the place, and he’s feeling so jittery that Peter clings to Tony’s elbow as they walk around, head resting on his shoulder whenever they stop somewhere to try and ground himself.

“There’s not exactly any studies on this,” Tony chuckles, browsing through his phone. “But a normal caffeine overdose lasts around four hours. You’re likely halfway through, kiddo.”

Peter scoffs, and denies there is even anything wrong for maybe the fifteenth time since they left the beach. He’s determined to go on this damn ghost tour tonight, skin crawling or not. He’s going to go, and he’s going to find someway to hold Tony’s hand whilst they walk around, pretend he’s really scared or something. In his head the idea is way romantic, something out of a movie.

“Do you want to stop somewhere and get something non-alcoholic and non-caffeinated to drink?” Tony suggests. “Or do you want to head back to the cabin and wait for Stephen? He might have a better idea of how to stop… this.”

“You just gestured to all of me,” Peter teases, and squeezes Tony’s arm tighter. The idea of heading back to the cabin is actually extremely appealing; bed, or at least the couch to lie down on and close his eyes whilst his overstimulated senses run their course going haywire, an actual doctor who could reassure him he’s not going to die (because he knows he’s not, but what if he does?) and a change of clothes that don’t carry the smell of a brewery. It’s only faint - probably imperceivable to anyone else - but the smell of yeast and alcohol sticking to his clothes is only making Peter feel even more nauseous. But that would mean the end of their day out, the end of a day out Peter’s starting to think of as a date. And he doesn’t want that at all. “Maybe… I just, I don’t wanna go back yet.”

I’m enjoying your company too much, he thinks, and he hopes Tony can read between the lines.

“Drink first, then cabin. Got it.”

Apparently not.

 

They find a little cafe called Choco-latte that specialises in Mexican cocoa and they’re doing a Fall special - pumpkin spiced hot chocolate. Peter’s practically salivating at the idea of it, bouncing on his heels as he drags Tony inside. It’s airy and quirky inside, an eclectic mix of mismatched chairs, coffee tables and bar stools, old black and white photographs of Mexico on a huge gallery wall beside the floor to ceiling windows looking out over Main Street. The smell of chocolate fills Peter’s nose the moment he steps through the door, and he’s immediately drawn to the huge cabinet of fresh cakes right at the counter. 

The girl behind the counter looks absolutely star struck that she’s standing in front of Tony Stark.

“What can I get you?” She asks, not taking her eyes off him. Tony shoots her one of his usual dazzling, flirty smiles and she practically melts. 

“Whatcha having, Pete?” He says, clapping a hand on Peter’s shoulder. Peter takes the opportunity to lean in a little closer and the satisfaction that follows when Tony’s grip around him tightens is immeasurable. He orders a pumpkin hot chocolate and a huge slice of cinnamon & blueberry cake.

The girl is professional, at least, even if she can’t take her eyes off Tony. Peter knows it’s in his nature, but the way he flirts back is killing him as Tony orders himself an almond macchiato and asks what her personal recommendation is on the cakes. Peter doesn’t wait around for an answer before excusing himself to find them a seat.

“Everything alright, kiddo?”

Tony drops into the chair beside him with his back to the window. Peter huffs, stares past him into the street and shakes his head. He can feel Tony’s eyes on him, even behind the man’s glasses.

“No, come on. What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Peter huffs, pulling his feet up onto the chair. Silence. Tony’s not taking that answer. Fine, okay. “You were flirting with her.”

He knows it’s not his place to be jealous. Peter knows exactly what Tony’s like; they’ve spent enough time together now for him to be used to this, the flirting with strangers, the way he knocks people off their feet with just a smile. He tries to tell himself it’s not different now just because they’ve made out a little on the beach, but it is. It still feels so unreal that Tony Stark might actually want him, so fragile, and in his current state he’s anxious it’s still all in his head.

Tony still hasn’t said anything.Peter looks up and finds the most amused smirk plastered across Tony’s face.

“You!” Peter gasps, “you were doing it on purpose?”

“I wasn’t,” Tony says. His grin widens as he raises his hands defensively. “You’re just adorable, kid.”

Peter pouts, batting Tony’s arm back down. He wishes the older man would stop calling him a kid because it feels like a weird imbalance of power when they’re so close to getting intimate with one another, but he’s not sure how to word that, not yet. “I don’t believe you. And I’m not adorable, I’m badass. I could kick your butt any day.”

“Not in this state, you couldn’t.”

He’s about to argue again, but the girl from the counter brings over a tray with their drinks and Peter’s cake so all he can do is hug his knees and shoot Tony a dirty look. She’s still making eyes at him as she sets the tray down and lays out the contents across their table; Peter is surprised she hasn’t tried to slip him her number yet.

“Is there anything else I can get you?” She asks, rolling the words off her tongue suggestively. “Can’t tempt you on something sweet?”

Tony leans back in his chair, hangs an arm over the back of it. His eyes dart to Peter for just a moment. “I’ve got everything I need right here, thanks sweetheart.”

Peter’s heart leaps into his throat. He’s probably reading too much into it, but it almost sounds like Tony’s talking about him.

The waitress doesn’t seem to notice if he is. She’s too busy batting her eyelashes at Tony to care about Peter’s presence at all. “Are you in town long, Mr. Stark?”

“Few more days.”

“Business trip?”

“Pleasure.” Tony’s not looking at her anymore. He’s looking right at Peter. Peter flusters under the attention, looks away across the shop - anywhere but at Tony, because now he’s sure Tony’s talking about him. It feels ridiculous to even consider it when only a few hours ago, he was pining one-sidedly. Tony’s gaze is burning right into him. “Needed to get away, blow off some steam.”

His heartbeat rattles irregularly against his ribcage. It’s a mix of the caffeine and the attention, making him jittery and dizzy with excitement and Peter’s sure if he was still in the same garbled state he was when the coffee first hit him, he’d have a hard time preventing himself from gushing his love for Tony all over again, right here in front of someone else. Peter goes pink to the  tips of his ears, hands twisting together nervously.

Tony’s not the only one looking at him anymore. It’s as though the waitress has finally noticed his presence, and she’s not that happy about it. Not that Tony’s said anything explicit, and maybe it’s just in Peter’s head because he knows the less than innocent things he’s been getting up to already, but he gets the feeling the girl has gotten the idea. She quickly excuses herself. Peter still can’t bring himself to meet Tony’s eyes.

“Still feeling jealous?” Tony says quietly. Peter bites his lip and quickly grabs up his hot chocolate so he doesn’t have to answer.

It is honest to god delicious. The sugar probably won’t do his heart palpitations any good but it definitely makes him happy. Peter hums in bliss and quickly moves on to the cake to try it too, and finds it’s just as delicious. Tony scoots his chair around beside him.

“Any good? I’m going to have to try it. Make sure it’s not poisonous.”

“Bit late for that,” Peter says through a mouthful of cream and blueberries. “Besides, thought you _didn’t_ want anything sweet.”

“I lied. Just didn’t want anything from her, kiddo.”

He looks at Tony in slight surprise, and the softness in Tony’s eyes takes his breath away. It’s almost as soft and as happy as the look on Tony’s face the first night when Stephen was making him laugh; the revelation crashes over Peter like a tidal wave. All he wants is to make Tony happy, and here he is, possibly doing just that.

He feeds Tony a bite of cake himself, right off his fork, and revels in the gentle hand on his thigh as they talk.

 

 

The freezing lake water swallows Peter like a Goliath beast, filling his overstimulated senses and emptying his mind as he plummets deeper into it. He opens his eyes to the murky blue to find his bearings, kicking his legs to get even further from the surface. It’s like staring through a cloud of smoke, his vision blurry in the half-light as it is, every hair on his body standing up to the sensation of the icy chill wrapping around his bare skin. He thinks of the first night, of plunging into the water from the rowing boat and almost panicking at the memory of nearly drowning in Manhattan, but this time there is no fear. Just him, his clear head and the perfect silence of being completely submerged. 

Stephen had already been back at the cabin when they arrived back and he’d berated Tony something awful for waiting so long to bring Peter back and for letting him drink so much despite their arguing that his condition had nothing to do with the alcohol and everything to do with the coffee brew. He’d checked Peter over, his touches delicate and careful as he’d looked for any signs that he needed more medical attention than they could give him at the cabin but found nothing concerning. Peter had melted into the touches regardless; alone with Tony it’d been easy to forget about Stephen for a while, but right in front of him it was impossible. 

He could remember everything. His exaggerated senses had him committing more to memory than he’d ever been able to in the past; the scent of Stephen’s skin, the taste of his mouth, the rough, unsteady touches of his hands on Peter’s naked chest. When he thought about it, he could almost taste the saltiness on his tongue from sucking Stephen off, and that thought had him bright red before he could help himself.

He’d taken his leave to swim the first moment he could get away. Left the two of them inside, along with his worries. 

When he’d plummeted into the water after chasing Toomes, Peter hadn’t been a strong swimmer. He’d learned as a child but never really swum after that, never having a reason to, focusing all of his sporting efforts on running and gymnastics; nearly drowning was enough of a wake up call to make him correct that. He’d been swimming weekly for the last two years just in case and along the way, discovered how much he loved it - the water dampened his Spider senses just enough to free him from the bombardment of sensations he experienced pretty much non-stop.

Not to mention he could hold his breath now for a really, really long time.

He doesn’t reach the bottom of the lake. He doesn’t want to swim so deep he can’t see the fading sunlight shimmering on the surface above him anymore.

Taking stock of the last few days is hard, because Peter can’t wrap his head around them. There’s been Stephen, and Tony, and Stephen and Tony together, there’s been worry and panic and tears and laughter, more-so than he’s used to experiencing in such a short space of time, and obviously, pleasure.

Pleasure he’s not felt with anyone before. Peter’s so inexperienced he’s almost embarrassed to let Tony or Stephen find out, ashamed of making a fool out of himself. At least Strange seemed to enjoy him playing up his innocence, but Tony is _Tony_. He’s got to be the most experienced man out there, and he must know what he likes, and Peter probably won’t be able to stand up to that. He’ll laugh at him. Won’t be able to look at him as a serious partner.

Peter’s dreading the thought of it. 

More even than the thought of Tony finding out about what he’d already done with Stephen, because he’s got no idea how he’d handle that.

His chest tightens at the thought, a lump forming in his throat, and suddenly it’s a lot harder to hold his breath. Peter kicks his feet hard, swimming towards the surface with a renewed sense of panic, this time over how in the hell he’s going to move forward from here. He breaches the water into the evening air with a desperate gasp, surprised to find tears welling up in his eyes. If only he wasn’t so damn emotional all the time. There’s got to be some solution, some way to make all of this turn out okay without hurting anyone - himself included. He’s determined to find it, to set all this right and to prove to Tony that they can be together.

The cold water has at least cleared his mind and eased the last of his caffeine overdose. It’s almost 6pm, the sun setting behind the trees across the lake already, and they’re going to have to get moving soon if they’re going to make the ghost tour.

 

Peter dresses up a little for it. Nothing too much - a red button down open over a black t-shirt and skinny jeans that make him feel good about his butt - but it’s enough to make him feel like the occasion is special. Which it isn’t, but he’s determined to make it into something. Despite all his anxious thoughts, he’s still determined to find a reason to hold Tony’s hand tonight, even with Stephen right there. The doctor did say him and Tony weren’t committed like that, after all, and if he’s going to show Tony just how much he meant what he said, he’s going to have to be bold about it.

He steals a little of Stephen’s gel in the bathroom and slicks his hair back. Even he has to admit as he checks out his reflection that it looks good like that; he looks older, maybe even a little sexy. Satisfied, Peter bites back a smirk and heads outside.

The look certainly makes an impact. Peter feels two sets of eyes on him as he walks out into the main room where Tony’s sat waiting and Stephen is putting out the log burner. It’s probably the first time in his life that he’s walked into a room and turned heads for the right reason, and he drinks it up.

“I’m ready,” he says, twitch of a smile on his lips. “Sorry I took so long.”

“Right. We should get moving.” Tony’s already getting up, grabbing the keys. His dark eyes are wide, hard to read, but Peter can tell there’s a hundred thoughts turning through his head.

Stephen’s gaze lingers, drags over his body as he stands up. He hovers there for a moment until Tony’s out the front door, calling back over his shoulder for them to hurry up, and then Stephen’s right up in Peter’s space again.

“I’d love to think this was all for me,” he teases, his voice dark as he crowds up against Peter. “But I don’t think it is, is it?”

Peter stutters out an answer, half lying. It doesn’t fly. He can tell by Stephen’s face that the man can see straight through him. Stephen’s hand finds his hip, but it’s not possessive.

“How long?” The doctor asks. It takes Peter a moment to realise he’s asking about Tony. He thinks about lying, about denying how he feels, but that’s just going to make the whole situation worse in the long run.

“Since we met,” he says honestly.

Stephen holds his gaze for a moment longer, a smile tugging at his lips. He leans in, presses a whisper of a kiss to Peter’s lips. “I get it.”

And he’s gone, following Tony out to the car as the other man hollers for them again, threatening to leave without them.

Peter has no idea what to make of that, but it feels like a step in the right direction.

 

“Our next stop is the horrifying Cleftstone Manor at the foot of Cadillac Mountain. If you’ll follow me, please!”

Their tour guide, Jennifer, is wearing a long red cloak and carrying a candle lantern to set the mood. It’s a small group - just the three of them, a family of four and a couple from Boston - and thankfully no one has fussed over the fact they’re taking a ghost tour with Tony Stark.

They hang towards the back nonetheless. It’s hardly been a spooky tour (no good for pretending he’s scared and grabbing Tony’s hand) but the view over the water is incredible at night, the whole bay lit up with boat lights from yachts moored in the harbour that twinkle into the horizon, and Stephen insists on taking photos of him and Peter again. Tony doesn’t argue this time, happily wrapping his arm around Peter’s waist and posing with a smile.

“You two are adorable,” he says, looking down at the image on Peter’s phone. There’s a twinkle in his eye as he shoots a sly look at Peter, handing the phone back.

It’s a really nice shot. They’re illuminated in the orange glow of the streetlights and for once, Tony’s glasses are up on his head so Peter can see his eyes. “Hang on,” he says, before Stephen can carry on walking. “I want one of all of us.”

He arranges the two older men behind him and takes a selfie of the three of them with the street behind them. It blurs as he tries to hold it steady to keep Stephen in it, because the older man is so much taller than the both of them. On their second try Stephen takes the phone, and Tony takes Peter completely by surprise by pressing a kiss to his cheek as the phone goes off.

The resulting picture is adorable, his own face screwed up in laughter and a sly grin on Stephen’s, Tony nuzzled in against his cheek, the lights of the shopfronts and restaurants blurred behind them. Peter can’t take his eyes off it as they rush to catch up with the group, and he nudges Stephen to thank him. Stephen winks his way and falls into step with the couple from Boston, leaving him and Tony a few paces behind.

“Cleftstone Manor is said to be home to the ghosts of two women who perished in a fire at the inn during the winter of 1947,” the tour guide says as they step in through the double doors of the huge, dark manor house. She holds her lamp up close to her face, the flickering glow casting dancing shadows in every corner of the gloomy entrance hall. “Some believe these female manifestations to be poltergeists, with reports of vases being thrown, doors being slammed. If you pause and close your eyes, you might notice how the air feels heavier in here, as though time has slowed down.”

Tony sniffs in amusement, casts a glance Stephen’s way. He’s felt time travel, after all.

“Not entertained?” Peter teases quietly, bumping their shoulders together.

“After everything else I’ve seen, I really don’t have it in me to believe in ghosts,” Tony scoffs. “Besides, I’m a scientist. Why, do you?”

Peter shrugs, holds onto Tony’s arm like he’d done earlier when they were walking around the town. “After everything else _I’ve_ seen, I think it’s probably very likely there’s a lot more out there that we don’t understand, don’t you?”

Tony hums in consideration, taking his arm back to slip it around Peter’s waist. It feels so good there, Peter is barely aware they’re in a room full of people. This is even better than holding hands.

“I was expecting this tour to be a little more… scary,” Tony says, rather than give him an answer. Peter is inclined to agree. It’s much more of a history tour than any ghost walk he’s ever been on before. Much less theatrical than he would have expected, considering he’d picked the flyer up in the psychic shop. The tour guide is explaining how many of the hauntings historically took place in the basement, but they’re not even allowed to go down there - next stop is upstairs, to see some historically accurate bedrooms. “I say we check out the basement. Take our own tour.”

“Tony!” Peter hisses, biting back a laugh. “She just said we’re not allowed down there.”

Tony’s hand tightens on his waist, pulling him close enough to murmur into his ear. “I love hearing you say my name.”

He hauls Peter by the waist to the nearest open doorway, crouching down behind a piece of furniture. They’re still on the right side of the velvet rope but Peter knows they’ll be in trouble if they’re caught in there without the group.

But no one notices their absence - not even Stephen, who’s made his way to the front of the group to listen better to the history of the place - and soon they’re moving on, up the grand staircase to the first floor. As soon as they’re out of sight, Tony’s pulling him back out into the entrance hall and over to the hidden door in the side of the staircase with a plaque beside it all about the basement.

It’s locked, but that doesn’t deter Tony for a second; he pulls a slim silver case from his wallet, no larger than a credit card, and takes two tiny tools from the inside.

“Shit, is that a lock pick?” Peter hisses. “Why the hell— why are you carrying a lock pick?”

“Not technically, but essentially, if it needs to be. Never get caught without the right tools, kid. You never know when you’re going to need to pick your way out of cuffs, or fix something on the fly,” Tony says, and Peter can tell he’s speaking from experience. “Just keep watch, okay?”

The look on Tony’s face is all the convincing Peter needs. Tony’s having so much fun, it’d be impossible to deny him. Instead he keeps an eye on the stairs, but listening carefully he can pick up the street too; the group were let in by a staff member who stayed outside - she could be back any moment, and he tells Tony as much. Tony shushes him so he can work. Peter feels ridiculous, like he’s on some sort of spy mission and not like they’re breaking into a haunted basement.

“I think someone’s coming,” he says, hearing heavy footsteps somewhere in the corridor upstairs. 

“Just a little more… there.” The lock clicks victoriously and the basement door creaks as it swings open, Tony catching it in one hand before it can knock any of the antique furniture. There’s no light from inside the basement, dust coughed up out of the darkness by the movement of the door. Peter can see the first step down and an old wooden handrail. It reminds him of so many horror movies and suddenly this idea doesn’t seem so fun anymore.

But there’s no more time. Someone is definitely coming. He grabs Tony and pulls him into the darkness with the door in tow. It clicks shut again, and they’re thrown into pitch black.

“Don’t panic,” Tony says, squashed against him in the small space at the top of the stairs. “But we are almost definitely locked in here.”

They’re not in darkness for long, just long enough for whoever was closing in on them to walk past. Peter can hear them pause for a moment by the door; he also hears a quiet intake of breath from Tony and fumbles in the dark to cover his mouth before he can speak. Whatever reason the person outside the door had stopped for, they’re satisfied, and leave again the other direction. The second Peter releases Tony, he’s lighting up the tiny space with the torch on his phone.

“That was close,” Peter laughs. “What were you going to say?”

“I was just going to ask you if you could hear anything. My bad. You were clearly one step ahead of me.”

His eyes shine in the torchlight and Peter’s all at once very aware of the way the two of them are pressed together in the tiny cupboard space. There is barely enough head height for them to stand and if either of them were to shift, they’d risk falling down the stairs. The musty scent of stale air and rotting wood fills his nose. There is little more to see, even in the light; the worn floorboards of the stairs above them, strung with cobwebs and thick with dust, and the door behind them with no handle on the inside. It would be more alarming that they’ve got no way out, but Tony’s arm is looped around his waist, his thumb tucked into Peter’s belt loop to keep him close, and Peter can’t find it in him to care. With just a shift of his thighs he’d be…

“Watch it, kiddo,” Tony breathes as Peter’s thigh comes in contact with his crotch. Peter turns his face away so Tony can’t see him smirking to himself and apologises.

“Kind of cosy in here,” he says, hoping his voice is as suggestive as it is in his head. “Don’t you think?”

“Mmm, although we do have a whole haunted basement to explore-”

Peter cuts Tony off with a bruising kiss, shoving him back against the dusty wall. It takes a second but Tony kisses him back eagerly, his other arm folding around Peter to keep him steady. He rocks his thigh into Tony’s groin again, drawing a long groan of pleasure from him. There’s something thrilling about where they are, probably just a few meters from the tour group or the staff - Peter can feel his chest flooding with excitement, heart hammering away at his ribcage as Tony’s tongue slips into his mouth to deepen the kiss. A hand slips down to Peter’s ass to grope at it through his tight jeans, all Peter’s senses filling up with Tony, nothing but Tony, and it’s perfect. He could lose himself in this - Peter’s sure he’d let Tony do anything he wanted in this moment, even if he did always imagine his first time in a bed - and it doesn’t seem like Tony’s got any plans on stopping either.

Until they’re interrupted, a nasty grating unintelligible sound echoing from somewhere down in the depths of the basement. 

The _haunted_ basement.

Every tiny hair on his body stands up as panic floods through him. There had to be some reason this part of the building was off limits. 

Oh god, Peter thinks. They’re going to die down here.

 


	8. Staring at the Stars

Both of them tense, going perfectly still.

“What the hell was that?” Peter whispers weakly.

“Probably a ghost, I’m sure.”

Peter can practically hear the shit-eating grin on Tony’s face. He elbows him playfully, not sure what part of Tony he’s connecting with in the darkness but satisfied with the ‘oof’ the older man expels in response. 

“Come on kiddo. Can’t get back out so we might as well check it out.”

With nothing but the light of Tony’s phone torch, they begin their descent into the depths of the basement below. With every step, the old staircase groans painfully like an old man with too many years behind him and too little strength left in his bones. The dust jumps into life under their feet, swirling through the air and settling again, clinging to the fabric of their pants, the musty smell only growing stronger the closer they are to the bottom. A couple of the steps are completely broken. Tony doesn’t notice but Peter senses them before he even sees them in the torchlight and grabs Tony’s sleeve to stop him so he doesn’t fall. They pick their way around the hazard and just when the descent seems like it’s never going to end, they finally reach solid ground.

The basement itself is a large open room with columns holding up the floor above them, the darkness stretching into far corners Tony’s crummy torch can’t reach. Peter’s eyes adjust to the dark, but even with his enhanced sight he can’t see far.

What he can see is so reminiscent of the building he was trapped under he almost chokes up.

“Not scared of ghosts, are we?” Tony teases. His voice soothes Peter’s oncoming panic a little.

Another noise sounds, equally as inhuman and terrifying. Peter’s determined not to be scared of what he’s hearing because come on, he’s faced far worse - super villains, aliens, death - and Tony’s probably right, ghosts aren’t real. Rationally it has to be a furnace or some other piece of ancient equipment you’d find in an old manor basement, but that doesn’t stop his anxious mind associating the sound with all sorts of horrible possibilities, or with the memory of eighty tons of concrete collapsing on top of him. He grabs out towards Tony, unable to keep a whimper from escaping his lips.

“Pete?” Tony’s tone is softer now, a hand covering Peter’s own where it’s clutching at Tony’s jacket hem.

“Sorry,” Peter rasps, shaking his head to try and dispel the feeling of panic clawing its way up his throat. “M’not- not scared.”

Tony moves in front of him, shines the torch between them so Peter can see him properly. His dark eyes are shining, his expression written with genuine concern as he studies Peter’s face. Peter avoids his gaze but doesn’t want to stare into the darkness either; he ends up staring down at his shoes instead, trying to concentrate on anything but the inevitable distress he knows is going to follow. He absently wishes he’d worn smarter ones; his outfit might look good but his battered sneakers look awful next to Tony’s shiny, expensive boots.

“Talk to me, kid.”

Peter squeezes his eyes shut. He can feel his chest shrinking around his lungs, seizing up as another resounding grinding noise fills his senses. He doesn’t want to panic. He doesn’t want to. 

The noise reminds him so much of the horrific whirring sound of Toomes’ homemade wings, and of metal grinding into metal as the jet crashed into Coney Island beach. 

His breath is coming hard and ragged. It feels like he can’t get enough oxygen no matter how hard he breathes in. It’s the basement, his head reasons. No air in the basement.

“Pete, look at me.”

Tony’s voice sounds far away. When did he get so far? And how? He swears he can still feel Tony’s hands on him.

“Sorry,” he says again, barely a whisper. The darkness is closing in on them, blurring the edges of his vision. He lets go of Tony’s jacket, pulls his arms in tight to his own chest. He can feel himself trembling but he barely notices, unable to concentrate on much more than how hot it suddenly seems to be or the way his heart seems determined to stop.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for.” Tony lifts Peter’s chin with a gentle touch until their eyes meet. Peter knows his own are watering, on the brink of crying. He’s so embarrassed for Tony to see him like this.

“Breathe with me,” Tony says, and Peter can hear the worry in his voice growing into something more frantic. He doesn’t want Tony to panic too. “In.”

Peter takes a deep, shaky breath in time with Tony. His vision is blurred almost completely but Tony is right there and it seems the darkness can’t touch him. 

“And out.”

Tony’s arms have made their way around Peter’s waist. He doesn’t remember it happening but he feels safe and secure there in Tony’s embrace. He doesn’t break eye contact as he exhales as much as he can.

“In.” The noise sounds again and Peter flinches, but Tony holds his gaze whilst they repeat the exercise. “And out.”

Peter’s senses are fighting hard to keep back the fear that clouds his mind, to concentrate on just Tony. He shudders, choking on the exhale, a sob escaping as his body shakes. 

He doesn’t want to give in to this. Doesn’t want to fall apart. 

It’s just a stupid machine. He’s not in the rubble. Toomes is gone. It’s all over.

He hiccups out another sob and then he can’t breathe anymore. All the oxygen has rushed from the room and he’s gasping for it, fast desperate breaths so he doesn’t suffocate. He mumbles something, but he’s got no idea what he’s just said. He’s so angry at himself for this.

Tony’s embrace is suffocating suddenly and Peter fights to get out of it but his legs are shaking and threatening to drop him. He can hear Tony saying his name but the sound is distant.

It’s too dark. Far too dark.

But then it’s not dark anymore. The blackness explodes into thousands of tiny sparks circling around them and for a few seconds Peter can see the whole basement around them. It doesn’t stretch that far after all; the walls are stacked with old crates and dusty belongings, and somewhere beyond he can see the machine making the grinding sound, pipes running out of it up into the house. It’s a boiler. An antique boiler. There’s no ghost. There’s no Toomes. There’s no plane crash.

And then there’s no more basement. They’re back on the beach. Peter collapses into Stephen’s arms.

“I’m here,” Stephen murmurs softly, as Peter mumbles more apologies into Stephen’s chest. “I want you to tell me something physical you can feel right now. Describe it for me. Can you do that for me?”

It’s a weird question, but Peter obliges. He nods as he thinks about what his fingers are touching, gripping tighter to feel the fabric of Stephen’s cardigan. “Your clothes,” he stutters, running his fingertips up the material. “Wool. It’s scratchy.”

“Very good. Now, tell me two things you can hear.”

“Your voice,” Peter answers quickly, then stops to think about his second answer. “I can hear the ocean. The waves on the shore. And the seagulls.”

It’s working. His chest releases its death grip on his lungs, and then the breaths aren’t so painful anymore. He sucks in a long, much needed breath and relaxes into the embrace.

Stephen presses a kiss to the top of his head, murmuring into his hair. “Tell me three things you can see.”

Peter pulls back enough to look at Stephen, finding the older man looking back at him with a determined softness in his blue eyes.

“You,” Peter breathes, his eyes darting across Stephen’s handsome face, taking in the thin age lines on his forehead. He notices far fewer around Stephen’s eyes than around Tony’s and knows it must mean there has been far less laughter in Stephen’s life. His chest aches at the thought. He turns his attention away and finds Tony standing beside them still, looking a little lost and forlorn. Tony offers him a smile as their eyes meet, but it doesn’t reach his own. “I can see Tony,” Peter adds. “He looks sad. I ruined the fun.”

“He shouldn’t,” Stephen says and it sounds more like an instruction for Tony than anything. Tony says nothing, the two exchanging a look. “You haven’t ruined anything. One more.”

Peter wipes at his eyes and he can see clearly once more. He’s stopped shaking but he barely notices, concentrating too much on their surroundings. He can see the ocean now, the murky blue depths of it swirling against the sand and the rocks. He can see the sky, lit up by a brilliant moon, nearly full up above the horizon. On their right he can see the lights of the boardwalk, the rows and rows of streetlamp on the hillilluminating the clapboard shops and their handprinted signs, and the brilliant glow of the moose statue on top of one of the buildings, made of twisted string lights in yellow and pink, like a neon beacon in the night.

“The town,” he says. It’s one of the loveliest sights he’s ever seen. “Bar Harbor. It’s beautiful.”

Everything is beautiful, actually. The way the light from the town pours down onto the beach, but the stars are still so clear in the sky above them. The two men before him, more handsome than anyone Peter’s met in his life and both - somehow, miraculously, seemingly - interested in him. The beach beneath his feet, now forever marked with the memory of kissing Tony and of Stephen holding him and talking him down from a panic attack. Peter wants to crawl into this moment and stay in it forever. 

Stephen doesn’t say anything in response now, but when Peter looks back at him he’s still staring down at Peter, and it’s almost as though his eyes are saying ‘so are you.’ Peter drops his gaze to the floor as his face reddens under the loving scrutiny. 

“Thank you,” he says simply, and steps back away from Stephen.

“How did you know where to find us?” Tony’s got his hands shoved in his pockets now. 

“I followed you,” Stephen says with a shrug. “But you managed to lock yourselves into that basement before I could stop you.”

Peter apologises for what feels like the hundredth time. Tony’s still got that look on his face, like he’s upset with himself. Peter knows it’s stupid but he feels inexplicably guilty that Stephen was able to calm him down when Tony couldn’t, and he gets the feeling Tony’s thinking the same.

“I was looking forward to exploring that basement,” he jokes weakly. “Stupid of me.”

“Panic attacks aren’t stupid.” Tony gives him a sharp look. “I shouldn’t have taken you down there.”

There’s a finality in his voice that stops Peter from arguing back.

 

After a little while longer on the beach, they agree to hit up one of the few actual bars in Bar Harbor (for food, not drink - Stephen’s still not happy with what happened at the brewery) which is just a few minutes stroll up the boardwalk. Peter walks between Tony and Stephen, his head clearing completely with the cold night air. He wonders how Stephen knew so quickly what was happening to him and how to deal with it; probably something to do with being a doctor. Stephen leads them to a quaint looking place called Carmen Verandah, a stand alone building at the end of the street with a covered balcony decorated abundantly with hanging flower baskets. It’s pretty on the outside and warm and welcoming inside, with a stream of modern music pumping through and a handful of patrons dancing on the open dance floor. Flashing coloured lights light up the main bar and Peter’s attention is caught immediately by an air hockey table in one corner, although it’s occupied.

They sit out on the balcony under the enveloping heat of several patio heaters, fighting off the fall chill, and order a selection of food off the menu to pick at. Tony’s mood picks up when his drink arrives and it doesn’t take long for the three of them to start chatting away again like the evening hadn’t almost taken a turn for the absolute worst only a half hour earlier.

“I would have been excited to see an actual ghost,” Peter insists. “That would’ve been awesome.”

“Sure you would, kid.” Tony grins at him and stuffs a few more fries in his mouth as Peter scoffs back at him. “You’d be terrified. You’d need me to fight it off for you. Except for the fact ghosts aren’t real.”

“They could be,” Stephen interjects, chuckling when Peter reminds him he already claimed not to believe in them. “I don’t believe in anything until I have solid proof, but they are by no means a far stretch of the imagination from anything I’ve seen.”

“See! That’s what I said!” Peter cheers. Tony rolls his eyes and downs his drink.

 

A little less than an hour later they’re at the air hockey table. Peter’s beaten Stephen twice - his enhanced genetics make it an extremely unfair match - and he’s beating Tony but only by a slim margin; he might be naturally talented but something tells him Tony’s got way too much practice messing around with things like this. 

“Used to have one in the Malibu house,” he confirms when Peter asks. The two second distraction of conversation almost allows Tony another goal, but Peter’s too quick.

Stephen gets them a round of drinks in - just soda for Peter and he’s glad about it, because he’s not sure his spider senses can take anymore overstimulation today - and they play a while longer until Peter’s giddy with the fun of it all before moving onto the pool table. It’s already getting late, but he can’t imagine having headed straight back to the cabin without finding some way to chill out after his anxiety attack, and spending the night playing stupid games with his two favourite people is wonderful.

He wants to dance, badly wants to dance. The music is pumping and he doesn’t recognise a lot of the tracks but he can feel the rhythm of them drawing him towards the dance floor, his hips swaying a little as he watches Tony and Stephen go head to head at a game of pool. They’re both extremely competitive and both know the game well. Stephen’s bent over the table, stretching to make a shot, and Peter can’t avoid noticing the way his pants pull tight around his ass. He prefers Stephen in civvies; he looks so much more relaxed in them and it always means they’re out of harms way.

A surge of confidence follows unexpectedly. They’re right across the pool table from Tony so Peter has to be subtle about it, but Stephen looks so delicious bent over like that and he’s feeling playful. Stepping up beside him, Peter leans in closer to his ear.

“Go for the yellow one,” he suggests. “Much better shot than the green ball.”

Behind the pool table his hand brushes across Stephen’s ass. Just to see what he’ll do, Peter tells himself.

Stephen doesn’t flinch but Peter sees a smug smile tugging across his lips and he knows he’s enjoying it.

“You’re the boss,” he says, shooting for the yellow ball and potting it easily. “Which one next?”

He leans back into Peter’s touch and Peter gropes at his ass a little, enjoying the feel of it beneath his palm. He glances around quickly to make sure no one’s watching but the few bar patrons in the area don’t seem in the slightest bit interested about what they’re up to. Satisfied, Peter turns his attention to the pool table and quickly analyses what he’s looking at. “Purple, but hit it into the red one.”

“You cheats!” Tony announces loudly. Peter quickly retracts his hand at the sound of Tony’s voice, acting like he wasn’t doing anything. “You can’t give him tips, Spiderbrains. That isn’t fair.”

Stephen throws Tony a daring look, one eyebrow raised. 

“Watch this,” he says, and pots the red and purple balls in quick succession.

Tony scowls, but Peter’s quickly around the table on his side as soon as his turn rolls around, saying it’s only fair he helps both of them. Tony doesn’t need the help - he’s got the game mapped out as mathematically perfectly as Peter does, he’s sure - but Peter’s not about to miss the chance to tease him in the same way. Tony stops and takes his aim, and Peter steals the chance to whisper in his ear.

“Think you can get it in?” He purrs. Tony clears his throat and shifts on his feet.

“Of course I can,” Tony tuts.Peter notices, only just, a shiver running visibly through Tony as Peter presses up against his side.

Stephen _definitely_ notices; he’s watching the two of them intently. His tongue swipes out across his lips to wet them and he bites at it slightly when he catches Peter’s gaze. “I think it’s time to head home after this round,” he says.

Peter hears the implication. Remembers their conversation earlier that morning. ‘Later’, Stephen said. He wants Peter and he means to have him. Then there’s Tony, and they’ve not talked about it yet, and Peter wants him so badly… he doesn’t know what to do. Oh god. It hits him clearly again the position he’s put himself in - wanting both of them, wanted by both of them, with no idea if either of them know at all about the other - and the thought is overwhelming. 

What he does know is that he’s not ready to go back yet because that means dealing with it.

“I wanna dance,” he declares, and slopes away from the pool table.

 

Tony doesn’t want to dance. At least, if he does, he doesn’t want to dance right now in public in a cheap bar, in a town where plenty of people have recognised him. But he’s pretty interested in watching Peter dance or at least that’s how it seems from where Peter’s stood, because Tony’s all but given up on his next shot to watch him.

Peter likes having Tony’s eyes on him like that. Stephen’s too. More than anything, it feels good to dance. 

He doubts he could ever put it into words, but he feels the rhythm of the music so much more since the spider bite. It’s probably the vibrations, but whatever the reason, dancing feels  _so_   _good_. It feels like the music is seeping right into his soul as he swings his hips and shuffles his feet, sliding around between the handful of people out on the dance floor. He remembers feeling like this as a little kid, remembers his mother loving to dance, her smile shining and lighting up the whole room as she swung him around, standing on her feet. He remembers dancing with May, practising for his first school dance, watching May and Ben dance on their wedding anniversary, practicing again for Homecoming. Dancing feels so good. 

An older couple from Idaho out on the dance floor with him get chatting as they move, and he happily indulges them, and then he’s dancing with the woman and her husband is clapping them on and for a moment, he’s not worried about anything at all.

He glances over at the pool table and finds Tony and Stephen have stopped playing altogether to watch him, and so Peter increases his efforts and finds himself grinning wildly as the woman hands him off on her husband and then they’re dancing too. The man tells Peter he reminds him of their grandson.

Stephen leans over to Tony and whispers something in his ear, and Tony gets flustered. Actually flustered. Peter’s never seen Tony Stark flustered before. He almost trips.

Moments later Stephen is striding over to the dance floor and politely stepping in, taking Peter from his elderly dance partner. Peter has no objections - he just never expected Stephen to dance. Tony, sure, because Tony is always tapping his fingers along to any beat he hears. But Stephen doesn’t seem the type.

It’s something Peter’s very clearly got wrong, he realises, as Stephen takes him by the waist and starts moving to the music, pressed right up against him.

The doctor is a very talented dancer.

Peter feels it all the way to his dick.

“You’re beautiful,” Stephen murmurs into his ear. This is a very different kind of dancing to anything Peter’s ever done. Peter swallows down a moan as Stephen’s hips grind into his and there’s no way the older man hasn’t noticed he’s half hard. “I doubt enough people have ever told you that.”

Peter’s eyes dart to everyone around them, but no one except Tony is looking. How is no one looking?

“Relax. They’re not going to notice.”

Peter’s sure he sees a flash of magic in Strange’s eyes. He gets the idea - Stephen isn’t going to put them in that sort of predicament in public. Of course the sorcerer is going to keep them safe from prying, judging eyes. Feeling a little bolder, he gets back into the groove of the music, moves fluidly against Stephen, his hands coming up to Stephen’s chest and running across it as he grinds his hips playfully.

Stephen’s looking down at him with an undeniable hunger in his eyes, and he gives back as good as he gets.

He’s better at this game than Peter is, and he knows it. Peter can’t bite back the cry of pleasure this time, so instead he muffles it into Stephen’s shoulder, eyes squeezed tightly shut.

“Stephen,” he breathes, hands fisting in the older man’s cardigan. He’s sure he’s bright red by now. “I- we’re- Tony is watching!”

Three fingers gently lift his chin up, and then he’s staring into Stephen’s bright blue eyes, and they’re looking back at him with an intensity he’s never felt from anyone.

“I know,” Stephen purrs, and leans down to capture Peter’s lips in a bruising kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more chapters to go! I think..? If anyone would like more of this fic after that, please do let me know, because I have loads of ideas set within the universe of this trio and their budding romance(s?)
> 
> Thank you everyone who has commented and left kudos so far, your feedback literally keeps me writing.


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